


Stand Witness

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: (not between the tagged pairings), Legally Blonde AU, M/M, Murder Trial, Sexual Harassment, idk if thats a tag but it is now, theres a million characters in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26495152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A Legally Blonde AU where Zeus is decidedly not a lap dog and the hockey team parallels sorority life a little too closely.
Relationships: Connor McDavid/Dylan Strome, Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews, Mitch Marner/Connor McDavid (past)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96
Collections: Anonymous





	1. I'm Going to Harvard Law

**Author's Note:**

> I saw someone talking about Mitch as Elle Woods recently and my brain just said "you have to write this immediately" so here we are. I don't know anything about law so all inaccuracies are a result of a.) following the movie and b.) consulting the only friend i have who considered law school. Look away if you know anything about law because you will be disgusted. All the class cold call scenes are stolen from the script I found online. Please don't sue me.  
> Also S/O to said law friend who edited this so fast. You're unreal.  
> Quick note: 1L/2L/3L is apparently how law school distinguishes between grades. 1Ls are first years, 2Ls second years, and so on.  
> Detailed TW in the end notes.

“Do you really think he’s going to ask tonight?” Willy questions. His voice is muffled from where his face is stuck between rows of shirts, finally popping out with a triumphant noise as he pulls out the blue shirt from last year’s formal and tosses it at Mitch’s head.

“I mean, I can’t guarantee it’ll be tonight,” Mitch says as he begins unbuttoning the fourteenth shirt for this fifteenth option. “But this restaurant is where he asked me to be his boyfriend, and he’s been talking so much about how he needs to get serious. His brother and his dad both got engaged senior year. I saw a receipt from that jewelry store recently, and it wasn’t cheap. It makes sense.”

He does a twirl for Willy and Zach when he gets the shirt settled over his shoulders. “Thoughts?”

“You look the same as always but in blue,” Zach replies. His contribution has mostly been occupying Zeus’ attention so he won’t chew up the piles of abandoned outfits on the ground. Sometimes he throws in absurdly unhelpful commentary. He’s been ignored for the most part.

“The color is a win but the style of option nine just made your arms pop,” Willy hums, reaching over to grab it. “I think we might need to make an emergency run and look for number nine in color fifteen.”

Mitch shrugs. “Alright, let’s roll.”

Zach sits up from the pile on the bed. “Wait, we have practice in two hours,” he calls after their departing figures. “I won’t bring your bags to the rink if you’re running late.”

They duck out to the faint sound of, “Mitch, I am _not_ walking Zeus again.”

****

“I feel like we should have gone home to do this,” Mitch worries, staring at himself in the dirty mirror above one of the locker room sinks. He can barely see his hair through the built up grime.

“Somebody really needs to clean this place,” Kappy agrees. He’s resting against a sink and has somehow been less helpful than Zach throughout this process. “I hope you don’t smell like sweat while getting engaged.”

Zach shoots him a death glare and places a gentle hand on Mitch’s back when he whimpers, a newfound fear besides messy hair now manifesting itself. “You don’t smell like sweat, and Connor isn’t marrying you for your hair.”

Mitch shrugs the hand off and spins to face his teammates, who are gathered around in a semi-circle of support. “But what if we’re in the car and he walks around to get my door and leans in to give me a kiss and notices I smell like sweat and realizes he doesn’t want to marry a club hockey guy that calls him bro and smells bad?”

“You’re the biggest catch on this team and the nicest guy I’ve ever met,” Zach tells him solemnly. Zach isn’t a liar and Mitch can hear the sincerity in his words. He’s never been a huge fan of Connor, so Mitch appreciates the genuine effort to make him feel better and be supportive.

“Woah, I think we can all agree I’m the biggest catch,” Willy interrupts. He was in the middle of reaching for the gel to fix Mitch’s hair for the fiftieth time, but he pauses over the container to pout.

“Not the point,” Zach sighs as the rest of the team starts debating who is objectively the hottest. The bickering is calming, honestly, both familiar enough that it calms Mitch down and funny enough of a debate to relay to Connor over dinner. Mitch has perfected telling his stories in the calming, toned-down manner that makes Connor the most interested. He knows every part of Connor and how to make him smile. They just _work_ together, and he’s excited to be a McDavid. Marner-McDavid? McDavid-Marner? They can figure out the hyphenation together.

“His car is here!” Ilya announces, racing into the locker room. He’d been put on lobby watch as the youngest member of the team, and he’s flushed with excitement at getting to play this essential role.

“We’ll see you as an engaged man!” Kappy yells, and the rest of the guys cheer and slap Mitch’s back as he walks toward the door. He can feel his stomach twisting from the excitement and nerves. God, he can’t wait to walk into the house tonight and show off his ring. Everyone’s gathering at the house to wait for Mitch to return so they can celebrate immediately.

His heart rate picks up as he walks through the halls and speeds toward the exit. He can see Connor lounging outside his car, flowers in hand. He _never_ picks up flowers.

Mitch surreptitiously pulls his phone from his pocket and sends a voice memo about that real quick to the team group chat before he tucks it back into his pocket. Tonight, Connor gets every bit of his attention. Mitch normally ends up on his phone while Connor has to take important calls, but Connor told him that this evening, Mitch was his focus. They set a no phone policy and everything.

“Hi, baby,” Connor says as Mitch walks up. He flicks his eyes up and down and then tugs at one of the buttons. “You look extremely hot in blue.”

Mitch leans up to capture his lips in a kiss, deepening it instead of pulling away for a quick peck. He’s not usually into the PDA because their campus is a bit conservative, but tonight is all about their love. He’s not going to be shy.

“Damn,” Connor says, blinking when Mitch finally lowers himself back onto his heels and gives him a sly grin. He loves the flush on Connor’s cheeks every time he starts to get interested.

“Ready to go?” Mitch asks, running a hand down Connor’s chest. There will be a lot of celebration tonight, but they’re going to take a detour before. He can’t _not_ consummate their engagement. Connor leans in for one final kiss before he walks around to open Mitch’s door.

Mitch has to hide a smile as he buckles his seatbelt. An entire life of doors being opened for him isn’t a bad future.

****

They’re parsing through the wine menu, Mitch making fun of the names more than making any actual decisions, when Connor clears his throat and closes the menu in front of him.

Mitch was expecting to wait until dessert at least, but he immediately follows suit and smiles widely at Connor. His mind is already screaming yes, but he has to at least wait for the question.

“So, you know that I expect to be admitted to Harvard Law for next year,” he begins. He reaches his hands to the middle of the table around the floral centerpieces and waits until Mitch nods eagerly and interlocks their fingers.

“I can’t wait to experience Boston,” he replies. They’d looked through condos last week, and Mitch has half their furniture picked out. He’s thinking a nice blend of a modern and dark academia aesthetic. He’s never been into interior design, but this will be their first home together.

“Right,” Connor says, breathing out deeply. “So. About that. I’ve been thinking about how I need to get serious for my future, and I’ve been thinking about how you relate to that.”

“Of course,” Mitch says, nodding along. He wishes Connor would just get to it already. They’re going to order the most expensive wine on this stupid menu while the restaurant applauds their bright future.

“The McDavid men always get engaged as seniors, and I don’t want to be the one to break that tradition.”

Mitch can already see which knee he’s going to bend on. God, he hopes there’s a diamond.

“With that said—” he takes in a deep breath.

“Yes!” Mitch says, blurting it out as Connor says, “I need to focus on finding someone worth marrying.”

The din of the restaurant continues clattering around them as the table falls silent. Mitch can feel his mouth gaping open while Connor just looks like he’d like to disappear. Even his neck is flushed red, matching the shame-faced look and deep maroon polo he’s wearing.

God, Mitch was willing to wave away a fucking Vineyard Vines polo shirt to marry this man, and he wants— “You’re breaking up with me?” He yelps. It’s not as silent as he aimed for, but he can feel the anger building up inside of him. He pays little attention to social norms on a good day, and today is a very, very bad one.

“We were looking at condos! I showed you floor plans! I ordered a lamp! And you’re _dumping_ me? Because I’m not _worth_ marrying?”

“Mitch,” Connor says quietly, placing a hand on his arm and trying to lower him back into his seat. Mitch hadn’t even realized their hands were still entangled, and he rips the remaining one away. “This doesn’t have to be a scene. We can have a nice meal and talk about this. I want us to be friends.”

“Friends? You think I can be friends with a person who leads me on, tells me we have a future together, and dumps me at our anniversary restaurant because I’m not worthy of the amazingly rich and powerful Connor McDavid?”

Mitch can feel his chest heaving, and he rips open the top two buttons to get a bit more air. Right now, Willy is probably littering his bedroom with the rose petals Mitch asked for. God, how is he supposed to go home and tell his friends he just plainly wasn’t good enough?

“Baby,” Connor begs. He glances around at the people around them as if to plead more for Mitch to just take a seat. There’s nothing he hates more than a scene.

“Don’t call me baby,” Mitch hisses. “I hope you find a rich Harvard girl so you can live out your ideal lifestyle.” He throws the napkin on the table for dramatic effect and turns on his heel toward the door. God, he wishes they’d already ordered the wine so he could throw it directly in Connor’s smug face.

It’s only September, but the evening is cool, and Mitch can feel goosebumps rising on his skin as soon as he steps outside. He’d been able to keep the tears burning the corner of his eyes at bay when he was encompassed by his fury, but all he’s left with is his shame. God, he’s the fucking stupidest person alive.

No matter how much people called Mitch a dumb jock, he always knew he had a brain. He has a 4.0 and the ability to read people like a book. He’s aware when his friends are upset or someone is mad at him and can easily come up with ways to make it better.

Somehow he still took every single warning sign from Connor as blind love instead of blatant indifference.

Like, he should probably stop harping on the condo thing, he thinks as he tries to wipe away his tears without getting his sleeve soaked, but it’s a prime example. He thought them picking out condos was a positive sign, but Connor had been cold throughout it. He’d stupidly chalked it up to proposal nerves when everything about the body language screamed “I just don’t love you.”

They’d been so solid ever since they met at a frat party sophomore year. Mitch had fallen head over heels for Connor’s fluffy blonde hair and shy smile. He never seemed like the rich douchebags that characterized the typical Greek life here. He took Mitch on real dates and never cheated on him even once.

He also never introduced Mitch to his family, so. Another dumb, too-late realization.

He’s about five minutes into his very long walk home when he sees a silver BMW pull up to him and start driving along slowly.

“Mitch, please let me drive you home. It’s far and you don’t have a jacket.”

“I’m fine,” he responds, sticking his nose higher into the air and straightening his shoulders. He’d rather get frostbite than have to make pleasantries with a guy who just dumped him.

“Please? You have a game tomorrow. You don’t want to be sick or sore.”

Mitch wavers, just for a moment, and Connor immediately leaps on it. “Plus _I_ don’t want you sick or sore either. Just let me take you home.”

“Okay,” Mitch finally agrees. He wipes away as many remaining tears as he can. Connor doesn’t get to see him cry.

This time, he opens his own door. The flowers are lying in the seat where he left them. When he looks closer, he realizes one of the roses is dying. He doesn’t even _like_ roses, which he’s hinted to Connor a million times, and now they’re some bullshit English class symbolism for his failed relationship.

They drive in silence until Connor pulls into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. All the lights are on inside, and he knows his friends are waiting impatiently. Someone’s probably already sent out an alert that Connor’s car is here.

“You really think I’m not worth marrying?” Mitch asks, fingers paused over the door handle. You don’t just throw away a two year relationship over one shitty statement. Mitch is willing to fight for this even if Connor won’t. He’s never clicked with someone the way he did with Connor. He’s just— his head is so inflated with years of his parent’s wishes and a very specific vision for his future. Mitch with his constantly bruised ribs and middle-class bank account don’t fit that 5 year plan, but he can encourage Connor to speak out against his parents for the sake of his own happiness.

“I never planned for this to last beyond college, baby,” Connor says softly. “You know that’s just not how things work. I plan on being a politician someday, and you don’t fit in that world.”

“Wow,” Mitch says. He’s trying to blink back tears but they just keep falling faster. He can feel them dripping down his chin all the way into the collar of his brand new shirt. “Sorry I can’t be your perfect, rich arm candy.”

“You’re going to make a really good husband for someone else,” Connor promises. He reaches to wipe at Mitch’s face, but his hand is immediately batted away.

“I’m not a trophy for marriage and waiting to be handed off to the next guy with a wallet and ring. I just love you,” Mitch replies softly. He wants so badly to be mad at how Connor clearly thinks Mitch is nothing more than a ring-chasing gold digger, but the only emotion he can produce right now is just plain misery.

“I’m sorry, baby, but this is the right thing to do for both of us.”

“Don’t call me baby,” Mitch says. He finally pushes open the door and steps a foot outside the car before he glances back at Connor. “I’m not going to give up, by the way. We’re right for each other.”

He doesn’t give Connor a chance to protest or get the last word before he pushes himself out the car and slams the door shut on the best thing to ever happen to him.

****

Thank god for Willy and Zach, because they rush out to the porch as soon as Mitch gets close. They probably just want a first glimpse at the ring, or to make sure it happened before they set off the party inside, but still. They’re always there, and Mitch makes sure to tell them so as he crumbles into Willy’s arms.

“Fuck, what happened?” Zach asks, throwing his body around Mitch’s as well to form a three-way hug. It only makes Mitch cry a little harder, full-on hiccuping by now.

“I’m going to assume not an engagement,” Willy jokes weakly. It’s probably an inappropriate time to crack a joke, but Mitch appreciates his constant sense of humor even when everything sucks ass. At least one man in his life is consistent.

“He dumped me.”

“What?” Willy says, his voice five octaves higher than usual. “That useless asshole. What the _fuck_?”

“He took me to our restaurant, gave me flowers, and told me I wasn’t worth marrying before we even finished reading the wine selections,” Mitch tells them. He’s muffled by Willy’s shoulder, but they hear him loud and clear.

Their threats to end Connor’s life are much louder than Mitch’s sad retelling of the worst night of his life. At some point they migrate into their house, which is somehow completely dead inside. He doesn’t know where everyone stuffed themselves in order to clear the path to Mitch’s room, but he’s grateful that the only remains he has to see along the way are a few floating balloons and a pizza box.

He also doesn’t remember when he finally cried himself to sleep, Willy spooned behind him brushing his hair and Zeus whining at his obvious distress, but he eventually falls into a fitful nightmare.

In it, Connor reminds him over and over and over and over again: “You just aren’t good enough.”

****

Over the next week, he only sees Connor once. This is partly due to the fact that Mitch is no longer attending classes, but more to do with him avoiding all his usual routes. Normally he veers by Connor’s frat on Zeus’ morning walk, but he runs at the first sign of a Greek letter (if only he’d done that from the very start). He works out at the shitty rink gym, relies on their ancient boxes of Kraft Dinner for sustenance, and burns through every rom-com the internet has to illegally offer.

The one time is when Connor stops by to drop off a box of Mitch’s stuff, and he only sees him from a window, but it still shatters him inside.

He doesn’t know what his roommates do with the box, but it hasn’t appeared in his room, likely as some weak attempt to protect him. It’s sweet in theory, but it’d be nice to get his laptop charger back.

“Mitchy, I know this really hurts right now, but you can’t let him destroy your life,” Zach says. Mitch slumps against him on the bed and tries to resist the urge to throw his bowl of ramen at the TV. Seriously, what kind of idealistic bullshit is the The Proposal? It makes him gag. Also, he’d love to be deported home to Canada right now, so Sandra Bullock is making a huge mistake.

“—haven’t been to class.” Mitch realizes Zach has been lecturing him and tries to refocus on his best friend. “Like, you’re just as smart as Connor, and you’re throwing your grades away over him?”

“He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met,” Mitch mopes. He always knew the answers to the most weirdly specific Jeopardy questions. They’d curl up together for a weekly Jeopardy marathon and make out during the commercials. He really fucking misses the domesticity.

“Dude, you could just as easily get into Harvard Law. Like, I don’t know where he gets off pretending he’s somehow better. You’re at the same school _and_ you have a better GPA.”

Mitch opens his mouth to argue how grades don’t define your intelligence, which is a lecture he’s given to a concerning amount of academically failing teammates. Before he utters a word of protest, Zach ignites an idea in the only part of Mitch’s brain that hasn’t turned into post-breakup slush.

“Shit,” he breathes out, sitting up. The ramen sloshes over the side a little bit and Zeus lunges for the bowl. Unconcerned, Mitch shoves it into Zach’s hands and rushes to his desk. He’s been trying to preserve his laptop’s remaining battery (apparently his roommates lost the Connor box), but this is a priority.

“We do not co-own this dog,” Zach complains as he lifts the food above Zeus’s reach. Willy takes that moment to walk in and soak in the scene.

“You’re out of bed?” He marvels, slapping Mitch’s back in excitement. Somewhere to their right, Zeus is consuming an absurd amount of sodium while Zach uses Mitch’s comforter to dab broth off his white shirt.

“What are you buying?” He questions, ignoring that disaster. He rests his chin on Mitch’s shoulder and furrows his brow at the checkout cart. “LSAT prep books?”

Mitch clicks confirm and slams his computer shut just as it takes its final breath of battery life. “Guys, I’m going to Harvard Law.”

****

Okay, so they’re not immediately supportive. Mitch has to explain three times to Willy, and then to Kappy, and then five times to Jake, what the LSAT even is, all while Zach and Kerf sit with disapproving looks in the background.

“So you just need to take this one test to become a lawyer?” Jake asks again. This is round six.

“You take it to prove you’re a competent human being at the skills law requires, and the score you get is considered in admissions. Also, Mitch is a dumbass who is making life decisions and acquiring crushing debt for a boy who doesn’t want him,” Kerf says from the couch. He doesn’t even live in the hockey house. He stays in honors housing and only shows up to tell them they’re stupid and drink their beer.

“Zach said himself that I could get into Harvard,” Mitch protests. All judgmental eyes (and Jake’s confused ones) turn to Zach, who raises his hands in immediate protest.

“Woah. All I said is that he _could,_ not that he _should,”_ Zach clarifies.

Mitch huffs at the sudden disappearance of support. “I’m going to get in. Then I will show up, prove I’m a genius lawyer, and walk away with a career _and_ the guy I love. It was an impulsive idea, but I swear I’ve looked stuff up since. I think I could be good at this.”

Zach allows a long-suffering groan to escape and throws his head back on the couch. “Fine. As long as you’ll be doing this anyway, we’ll help. Kerf can help you study—”

“I can?”

“—and I can edit your admissions essays. Willy can, I don’t know, research backup schools.”

Willy flashes a thumbs up and pulls out his phone to start googling.

“I don’t need backups,” Mitch says. He pulls the phone out of Willy’s hand and hits the power button. “I’m getting into Harvard Law.”

No one sounds convinced in their mumbled agreement, but he’s team captain, so. They’ll fucking live or else they’ll be benched.

****

“I’m never going to understand logic games and I’ll fail the LSAT,” Mitch cries into Zeus’ fur, then, “I am a God amongst men,” when he goes -0 one game later.

“The English language is a worthless pile of crap,” He informs Willy after failing a reading comprehension section, who nods wisely and offers to teach him Swedish instead.

“I just sometimes wonder if I’ll die alone,” he voices to Kerf during their ‘nothing-is-clicking-so-let’s-just-get-high break,’ followed by a declaration after his hat trick that weekend that Connor is going to love him once he’s an NHL superstar and part-time lawyer.

He’d love to claim he’s perfectly prepared by the time November rolls around, but he’s pacing outside the test center, agonizing over whether he brought enough pencils.

“It’s just that I took Connor to his exam, and he brought five, not three,” he tells his team. They’re tailgating his LSAT because they’re all losers with nothing better to do on a Saturday morning, but it also means he has to duck a package of flying hot dog buns aimed at his head.

“Hey,” Ilya says firmly. “You are going to go in there and win the test, or get perfect, or whatever your weird system is.” He’s told Mitch good luck every day for the past week, and Mitch almost tears up again. What a fucking rookie.

“180,” Zach says. “He’s going to get a 180, and then he’s going to apply to Harvard Law, and we are going to go on a too-long road-trip next year to visit him while he’s tearing it up in Boston.”

Mitch really does have to wipe at the corners of his eyes this time. He loves his team.

“Now go,” Willy says, shooing him toward the door. “We’ll be here the whole time.”

****

Mitch is curled on his desk chair, knees pressed to his chest and shaking a little as he waits for the clock to tick to 9.

The thing is, he didn’t feel like it went _poorly,_ but he was barely hitting the 170s consistently before test day. Plus, his decision to just randomly decide to apply for law school meant he was already waiting for late November to take the exam and receive his score. Connor had submitted his application on September 1st, the day it all opened. It was a dangerous game waiting this late and expecting a Harvard Law admission. He really, really needed a 175 to feel safe.

Zeus, sensing Mitch’s distress, presses his nose into Mitch’s knee. He buries a hand into Zeus’ fur and tries to calm down. It’s 8:59 AM and his friends are impatiently awaiting his results. If he has to take the next LSAT, he’s going to be way too late to apply in a respectable time frame.

9:00 AM.

He clicks the email that appears in his inbox, follows the link, and:

“You got a 179?” Zach screams back after Mitch flings open the door and shouts it out to the house. “Holy _shit,_ Mitchy, you fucking genius!”

“Harvard Law, baby,” Willy crows, then pushes Mitch back toward his room. “Now go submit that fucking application.”

****

**_Inside the Harvard Law Admissions Office_ **

“He has a 4.0 from a well-respected university and a 179.”

“Student athlete as well,” another remarks. It’s an objectively impressive application that will improve their medians.

“His personal statement was about hockey,” a third officer weighs in. “It all just feels a little one-dimensional. Very limited work experience and relying on club hockey as his main extracurricular.”

“His stats indicate he will be an asset to this university,” the first woman says. “I don’t know that running a fundraiser for a dog hockey league will be determining his job prospects, but it’s a good sign he was able to get these scores with a student athlete schedule.”

The third officer looks at the file and shrugs. “Alright. Mitch Marner, welcome to Harvard Law.”

****

Mitch is blasted out of his mind when he calls home after opening his admissions decision. It was objectively kind of stupid to keep a potential law school future hidden from his parents for so long, but it’d be far more embarrassing to keep them informed and not get in.

“Is this a prank?” His dad responds, while his mother starts planning out the bragging Facebook post that’s going to make Nancy from her office seethe with jealousy.

Mitch twirls the beer bottle in his hand. The party is still going in the house behind him, and it’s grown to more of a general rager than a celebration for him. Sitting here alone on his porch, shivering in the night air, this future all feels a little too overwhelming. Like, he never _actually_ thought he was getting into Harvard Law. He can’t even name a single field of law.

“No,” Mitch finally responds. “I actually got in.”

“Please tell me you’re not deciding your entire future and going into debt over chasing some…” Mitch’s dad trails off, which is probably for the best. That sentence wasn’t going to end with any positive adjective. He never liked Connor despite the prestige he brought with his surname and trust fund. At that point, Mitch just had to accept that no guy he brings home will ever be well-received. It kinda sucked, but he thought at least Harvard Law could make his dad proud.

He has to talk through a growing lump in his throat, the kind where you know you might cry if someone pushes just a little. “No, Dad. Harvard Law thinks I can be a good lawyer. Please just be happy for me.”

His mom cuts in, doing the damage control as usual. “Of course we’re proud, honey. Just surprised. You’re going to do great.”

“We’ll talk about this more later,” his dad says, then hangs up the phone. Mitch can only imagine the bickering about to take place. At least Mitch gets to be another bragging right for his mom, even if it’s not to announce his engagement like she wanted.

The porch door swings open with a loud creak and Kerf pops his head outside. He looks significantly less drunk than the rest of the party-goers and he does a quick scan of Mitch’s expression. Mitch tries to quickly pull his face back to neutral and paste on a pleasant smile.

“You coming back inside?” Kerf asks. He looks a little concerned, but not like he’s about to stage a full intervention.

“Yeah,” Mitch says, leaving his mostly empty beer on the dirty glass table. His stomach feels a little too funny to keep on going. “Ready to party all night.”

Kerf smiles as if he believes him, but he still gives Mitch a supportive pat on the shoulder.

God, he has no clue how he’s going to graduate and leave these people behind. Harvard Law better have a club hockey team.

****

He pulls up to his dorm with a very full trunk and no friends to his name. Both Zach and Willy are assholes with “full-time jobs” and apparently “can’t take vacation days a month into working here, Mitchy, I’m so sorry.”

He never really expected his parents to show.

Zeus whines from the backseat where he’s been cooped up in his crate for the final portion of the drive. It was a bitch getting approval for Zeus in a dorm, but he had received a scholarship for housing and wasn’t sacrificing it to pay Boston rent. It wasn’t exactly a nice condo with his future husband but he’d live. Besides, at least he’d get to meet other students.

“Come on, buddy,” he coos, opening the car door and letting Zeus jump free. They have to stop at a building on campus to get his room key and welcome pamphlet before he can begin unpacking the hordes of shit in his way-too-small car.

They get stopped more than once along the way for people to pet Zeus, which is totally understandable, but Mitch is just anxious to get to the quad and see if Connor has arrived yet.

He probably could’ve dealt with this situation in a more mature way, but it isn’t his fault that Connor unfriended his mom on Facebook and thus missed the announcement. Plus, he isn’t an asshole that’s going to flex his acceptance all over his social media. Really, if Connor cared about his post-grad plans, he maybe could’ve asked.

They make it to check-in with no run-ins along the way, and Mitch joins the longest line he can find. The longer he waits, the more likely it is that Connor will show up. They can lock eyes across the quad, and Connor will realize Mitch is just as smart and capable as any person he could find to marry, and he might even propose right—

“Name?” The bored check-in guy asks. He has at least three inches on Mitch, looks like he hasn’t gotten a good rest in at least three months, and his leg muscles are probably the size of Zeus’ entire body. Considering Zeus is a full-grown lab, that’s pretty impressive.

“Oh, uh…” Mitch starts. His mind is wiped completely blank, still pre-occupied with his search.

“Did you forget your own name, sweetheart?” The guy asks. It’s probably sarcastic, but it’s delivered completely monotone.

“Tough talk coming from a guy in a tie-dye shirt and the letter O in Auston,” Mitch chirps back, pointing to the name-tag on the hideous shirt. The guy— Auston— blinks back, not looking even remotely affected by the weak comeback.

“Tough talk from a Leafs fan,” he says dryly, waving his hand at Mitch’s top. Which, honestly, too far. _Definitely_ a Bruins fan talking that shit. He really didn’t think moving to Boston through. “Can I please have your name now?”

“Mitch Marner.”

The guy sighs a bit. “I’m pretty sure you’re in my orientation group.”

Mitch gives him his biggest smile and takes the packet offered to him. “Can’t wait to see you there, bud.”

He grabs Zeus’ leash and is about to walk away from Auston’s rolled eyes when he remembers something. “Hey, has Connor McDavid checked in yet?”

“I can’t reveal information about other students. Sorry,” Auston says, not sounding all that sorry. “It’s 2020, dude. Just text your buddy.”

Mitch rolls his eyes back. It’s not as if it’s some super private secret whether a student has checked in. It’s definitely just discrimination for being a Leafs fan.

He scans his eyes across the area one last time, but there’s no fluffy hair in sight. He sighs, resigning himself to a long, lonely day of setting up his room alone.

****

Orientation begins at 5 in a little grassy area. Everyone’s divided in groups of 4 led by an upperclassman, and Mitch’s group looks exactly how he’d expect a Harvard crowd to look. They all just _scream_ prep school.

Auston apparently didn’t get Mitch switched out of his group like he’d probably been tempted to, and he starts off the introductions. “I’m Auston Matthews. I’m a 3L from Arizona. I went to University of Toronto and graduated with a master’s in Econ. Everyone go around and give that same information and tell us what you do with your life.”

The guy across from Mitch eagerly pops his hand in the air. Clearly bemused that he’s being asked for permission, Auston indicates approval for him to go next.

“I’m Mat Barzal from Vancouver. I have a master’s from NYU in marine biology. I took three years off before law school to study variations in aquatic environments near U.S. foreign military bases and how the military industrial complex is killing marine life.”

A little bit cooler than sports for sure, not to mention he has the most beautiful bone structure Mitch has ever seen on a person, but he doubts everyone has pursued wild paths he didn’t know existed.

The girl next to him gives a shy wave. “Hi, I’m Megan Keller. I’m from Michigan and went to Boston College. My major was political science. I also took three years off, and I worked with a lobbying group in D.C. to advocate for reproductive rights.” Okay, impressive, but not insane, really.

She continues, naturally. “Last year, we blocked two pro-life bills in Alabama and I worked on a case argued in front of the Supreme Court about birth control in relation to privacy laws. It was super interesting and I’ve already been offered a 1L summer internship back with that firm.”

At the very least, the dude next to him looks super, super normal. He probably didn’t, like, get sent to space and discover a new planet.

“Hey. I’m Matthew Tkachuk. I’m from St. Louis but attended University of Calgary. I’m not nearly as impressive as these two,” he laughs self-consciously. Mitch loves him already. “I studied communications. I only took a year off to try and sell my pilot to HBO. Netflix ended up purchasing the rights, but I’m not sure if it’ll go anywhere, so. Here for now to hopefully work in entertainment law.”

All eyes turn to Mitch. He normally adores attention, but how do you follow this bullshit? How do people like this exist? How did he possibly get into Harvard Law?

He clears his throat uncomfortably and pushes his too-long hair from his forehead. “Uh, hi. I’m Mitch Marner. I’m from Toronto, so I didn’t appreciate your Leafs slander earlier. Plus, you’re probably a Yotes fan so I don’t want to hear shit from you,” he jokes to Auston. Filling his words with meaningless jabber is a lot easier than faking some accomplishments. If he just ends there, maybe they can—

“Undergrad? Major? What you’ve done with your life?” Auston prompts. There’s a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth, almost undetectable, but it’s there.

Mitch gives a tiny grin back. “Uh, I went to a school in Pennsylvania no one has ever heard of. I double majored in fashion merchandising and kinesiology. I came straight from undergrad, so. Kinda just captained our club hockey team.”

No one is looking very impressed, so he rushes to add, “And this is Zeus, my chocolate lab. I rescued him from an abandoned litter outside Walmart. He’s one.”

Their facial expressions don’t change, which means they’re heartless. Mitch had bottle fed him and everything. Auston at the very least reaches over and pets Zeus’ head, so he’s quickly Mitch's favorite member of the group.

“Alright, so now that we’re all acquainted, just hit me with all your questions,” Auston says. In no time, the other three are slamming him with questions Mitch could never even think of. It took him receiving his schedule and a long Google search to find out torts is a class, not a dessert, but these people even have their final exam schedules memorized.

For once in his life, he fades to the background as everyone else demands center stage. Zeus places his head in his lap, as if sensing how out-of-place he feels, and he takes a deep breathe. He’s here just like everyone else, he reminds himself, even if he didn’t graduate college at 14 like some of these geniuses probably have.

He’s going to find Connor, remind him of all the reasons they fell in love, and prove he deserves to be here, even if his peer’s glares make him want to disappear into the grassy hill and never be seen again.

****

Mitch spends forty-five minutes on FaceTime with Willy his first day to get help picking out his outfit. He’s been up since 6 AM, already took Zeus for two walks, and can’t stop nervously pacing.

“You’re going to ruin your clothes with sweat if you don’t stop that,” Willy warns. He’s been driving to his office for most of this call and thus can only pass extremely quick judgement, but he’s at least attempting to calm Mitch down. Zach had denied his call because he didn’t want to “feed this absurd clothing paranoia.”

“I know,” Mitch sighs, throwing his phone and himself down on his bed. “I just… I still haven’t seen him. I want to look good.”

Willy clicks his tongue in disapproval. “You should want to look hot answering questions as a confidence booster for good grades, not for a boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mitch says dismissively. He really can’t think about this any longer, and he needs to start heading to campus anyway. “Hey, tell me about that girl you went out with yesterday. Zach said she’s Swedish too?”

Willy perks up and immediately starts babbling about how nice it felt to talk to someone in his native language. It’s familiar rambling in a way that makes him kind of homesick, and Mitch lets his guard down as he soaks in the sound of his best friend’s voice. He kisses Zeus goodbye and begins his long trek to class, not looking away from the screen until he runs straight into someone’s broad back outside his first classroom.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes, cutting Willy off mid-sentence. He glances up at the guy, ready to be reamed out, until the dude turns around.

“Mitch?” Connor says. His eyes are bugging a little and he takes a step back, looking him up and down like he can’t believe his eyes. God, Mitch is so grateful he went for the black turtleneck instead of the green.

“Hi, Connor!” Mitch says breezily, ending his call before Willy can ask any questions and pressing ignore on all the subsequent redials. “I totally forgot you’d be starting here.”

“I— what?” Connor asks. He looks sincerely dazed. “Are you not here to see me?”

Mitch puts on an innocent expression. “No? I go here!”

“You got into Harvard Law?” Connor asks. Mitch tries his best not to be offended. He’s probably just a little dumbfounded that his ex who never once expressed interest in law school is suddenly popping up at one of the most prestigious schools in the world.

“What, like it’s hard?” He replies. He will _not_ reveal the number of tears he shed over the LSAT. Connor loved how easy Mitch made things look, from his immaculate appearance to flowing conversations with powerful executives. He always believed Mitch woke up every morning with perfect hair, a toned body, and sunshiny attitude. He isn't going to burst the perception now.

When he realizes Connor probably isn’t going to reply, still shell-shocked from this bomb, he tosses him a final flirty grin. “I gotta run, but meet me at the benches outside Wasserstein after class?”

“Sure,” Connor agrees, rubbing Mitch on the shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again, Mitchy.”

Man, his goal will be accomplished before he’s even finished the first week of classes.

****

He walks into his Civil Procedure class and looks around the room. It’s flooded with students taking their seats and he doesn’t recognize a single fact from any of his orientation events until Matthew pops up in front of him.

“You trying to decide on a seat?” He asks sympathetically. Mitch nods. In undergrad, he always knew to sit in the right middle, but he’s not sure what the rules of law school are. Matthew hums in acknowledgement.

“I recommend the front. I already have a seat with a friend, but I wish I could sit there. Professor Tavares will assume you’re paying attention and usually won’t call on you.”

Mitch sighs in relief. At least someone is nice, even if Matthew had seemed pretty stand-offish at first. “Thanks, dude.”

He makes his way to the front, squeezing between a guy with extremely poor hygiene and a girl who shoves his elbow off the table. It’s not ideal, but it’s worth not being called on.

He pulls out his laptop to prepare for his note-taking and tries to start a conversation with his seat neighbors, but neither gives him the time of day, which is fine. Not everyone is here to make friends, he reminds himself.

Professor Tavares walks in at precisely 9 AM. Despite it being only September, he’s wearing an expensive-looking pea coat, which he slowly unbuttons while the class waits with bated breath. They all stare in anticipation while he drapes the coat over his chair and picks up a piece of chalk to write a phrase on the board: “The law is reason free from passion.”

He clears his throat and turns to face the class.

“Welcome to Civil Procedure. I am Professor Tavares. In this course, you will learn to speak a new language. You will be taught to question and achieve insight into the world around you. The seat you've picked is yours for the remainder of the semester. I hope you like your seat-mates.”

The girl next to Mitch huffs loudly at those words.

Professor Tavares walks up to their row then, staring her directly in the eyes. “And those of you in the front, beware. You’re my favorite to cold-call.”

Before he heads back to the front, he closes the lid of Mitch’s laptop with one finger as if he’s afraid of catching some incurable disease. “No computers in my course, which those of you who read the syllabus very well know.”

Mitch gulps, zipping open his bag underneath his chair and shoving his computer back inside. He didn’t bring any notebooks because he’s an ill-prepared dumbass, so he grabs the papers from his orientation packet. He can probably fit notes on the back if he writes super small.

Tavares lands his eyes on a boy a few seats over from Mitch. “You, what’s your name?”

“Travis Dermott, sir,” the boy responds, pushing his blonde hair back nervously.

“Mr. Dermott, can you tell me who spoke the words on the board?”

The guy almost sags with relief. “Aristotle, sir.”

Tavares approaches closer, an evil look on his face, while Travis turns a bit green.

“Are you sure?”

Travis opens and closes his mouth like a fish. “I— yeah?”

“That didn’t sound very positive,” Tavares continues. He reaches Travis’ desk and starts tapping his pen on top of the wood. “Would you be willing to stake your life on it?”

“Yes,” Travis answers, more confident now.

“Hmm,” Tavares hums. He spins around and pokes the girl behind him in the head with his pen. “What about her life?”

“I don’t know,” Travis blurts out. He looks like he wants to take it back immediately but also like he might throw up if he says another word.

Tavares lets out a disappointed sigh and meanders back to the front. “You should speak with more certainty. You were correct, by the way, but the self-doubt just makes you sound clueless. Let’s all keep this in mind as we begin with the reading assignment for today.”

Mitch, still a bit caught up in Travis’ red face and slouched posture, has to do a double take to process that sentence. Reading? They had _reading?_ He silently curses Matthew in his head. The dude definitely knew the cold-calling rates in this class and just wanted to fuck him over.

“Alright, who can tell us the facts of _Gordon v. Steele_?”

No one volunteers a hand, so Tavares pulls out a class roster from his desk.

“Travis Konecny?” He asks. A boy with a flannel shirt and backward hat raises his hand from the very back.

“Gordon sued her doctors for malpractice.”

“Very thorough answer,” Tavares says dryly. “Anyone care to answer that actually read in depth?”

Again, no hands go up, so Tavares runs a finger down the list. “Let’s see… Marner? What did the dispute entail?”

Mitch raises his hand just the smallest amount to draw Tavares’ attention and doesn’t look up. He’s busy trying to burn a hole into the desk or, more hopefully, disappear. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware we had a reading assignment.”

Tavares doesn’t bother responding, instead calling out another name. For a second, Mitch is flooded with relief. That is, until Tavares actually begins speaking. “Mr. Strome, do you think it’s acceptable that Mr. Marner chose not to prepare for today’s class and wasted our time?”

The boy, dressed in a fucking Burberry button down and smiling like he has something to be happy about, displays a sickly sweet smile. “No, I do not.”

“Do you think he should use this time to adequately prepare for our future classes instead of soaking up the knowledge everyone else came ready for?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

Tavares gives a sharp nod toward the door. “You heard him, Mr. Marner. We’ll see you Wednesday. Maybe use this free time to read the syllabus like everyone else has.”

Mitch scrambles to shove his crumbled papers back into the bottom of his bag and stumble to the exit through his blurry vision. He can hear his classmates whispering as he takes the incredibly long route to the door. Naturally, he first reaches one that won’t open and has to find another while that smug asshole answers Tavares’ questions with ease.

He’s barely 10 feet down the hallway when he smacks into his second person of the day.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, trying to get around them, but a hand grabs onto his arm.

“Mitch? Are you okay?”

There’s approximately three people here who know his name, if he counts Matthew from class, but that’s definitely not Connor’s voice.

“Just a bad first class,” he tells Auston, trying to tug from his grip. All he wants is to run back home and give Zeus a hug.

“Who was it?” Auston asks sympathetically. He loosens his hold but starts directing Mitch down the hall as he tries to stop his pathetic hiccuping.

“Tavares.”

Auston winces while he reaches over to zip up Mitch’s still open backpack. “Ouch. Yeah, he’s a scary dude. I promise that almost everyone will get kicked out at some point this semester. It’s a rite of passage and they’ll all forget by next week.”

Mitch wipes his nose on his very, very expensive turtleneck and buries his face into his hands once Auston’s sat him down on a bench. “It just all feels so overwhelming.”

Auston throws a friendly arm around his back. “Here, let me see your remaining schedule. I can give you some advice. I’ve been around the block with most of these profs.”

Mitch pulls his phone from the side of his bag, unlocking it and smiling at the adorable photo of Zeus on the ice next to a bucket of pucks waiting on his home screen.

“He’s cute,” Auston says. “Your dog. I really miss mine.” He has a wistful look on his face, like it’s been a while since he went home. Going from Toronto or Boston back to Arizona is probably a long and rarely taken trip, but Mitch isn’t really sure how to comfort this stranger over his homesickness.

Instead of going for awkward platitudes, Mitch hands his phone over with his list of classes displayed. “Here you go.”

Auston snaps out of whatever stupor he was in and starts looking through the details.

“Over-prepare for Keefe’s class. He really likes people who volunteer, which means he won’t cold-call you if you had a bad day and didn’t do the reading as long as you’re raising your hand often enough. Clifford is missing a few teeth and they make him spit when he talks, so avoid the front row. As for Muzzin, just read the footnotes carefully. He pulls all his questions from there and thinks no one notices.”

He hands Mitch’s phone back. “Seriously, I promise you’ll be okay. Everyone wants to drop out at first.”

Mitch shoves his phone back into his bag and smiles widely at Auston. He’s kind of cute in an unconventional way. His nose is a little funny and the forehead is a crime, but he has a nice voice and good teeth. “Thank you, dude. And you’re welcome to come pet Zeus any time you’re missing your dog.”

“Nala,” Auston fills in, answering the question Mitch didn’t ask. “That’s her name.”

“Anytime you miss Nala.”

They sit there for a moment in a peaceful silence as classes start changing and students begin flooding the area again.

“Hey, do you maybe want to—” Auston starts, but he’s interrupted by Connor tapping Mitch’s head and smiling down at him when he whips around.

“Hi!” Mitch says breathlessly. Connor somehow got more attractive in the span of one class period. Being a law student looks hot on him.

“Hi, Mitchy. Am I interrupting something?” Connor asks, squeezing into the space between them and looking pleasantly toward Auston. It’s one of those well-practiced, dismissive glances meant to make someone excuse themselves, and Connor is a master at them. He once practiced it on Mitch for two hours. It was weirdly endearing.

“No, I was just going,” Auston finally says when Mitch doesn’t speak up. “I’ll see you around, _Mitchy_.”

Mitch has a feeling he won’t be letting that one go. “Thanks for your help, Aus-ey.”

They both wince at that. “Yeah, doesn’t work,” Auston laughs.

“Bye,” Connor says, edging on a little passive aggressive. God, not only did Mitch get killer advice from a 3L, but Connor is oozing jealousy. The day is looking up.

“How was your first class?” He asks once Auston disappears from earshot. Mitch shrugs, hoping there’s no leftover tear tracks on his cheeks.

“This one guy tried to make me look bad in front of Tavares, which sucked, but it’s no big deal. I’m just glad we’re here together.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Connor says. His eyes are darting around as if he’s looking for someone, but he refocuses back on Mitch when he asks how Connor’s first day is going.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Connor says, and it’s then when Mitch’s entire world shatters.

A hand snakes over Connor’s shoulders, running down to his chest, and flashes a shiny ring in Mitch’s face. When he looks up to see who’s attached, it’s fucking Strome. The same guy who made it his mission to fuck Mitch over today is putting his engaged hands all over Connor’s body.

“Oh, uh, Mitch,” Connor starts. His face is a shade of red Mitch has never seen before, and he thought he’d witnessed all the flavors of anxious Connor’s skin could flush. He can practically see the stress breakouts forming on his chin. “Have you met Dylan?”

“I’m familiar,” Mitch replies through gritted teeth. “This is the boy I told you about from this morning.”

“Oh, that?” Connor says. “I’m sure Dylan wouldn’t make you look bad. I think you guys will get along really well.”

“Who are you again?” Mitch asks, flicking his eyes up and down with disdain. Dylan just settles himself on the bench, practically on Connor’s lap, and reaches out the hand with a tacky ring.

“I’m Dylan. Connor’s fiancé?”

The blood in Mitch’s body all rushes to his brain in one horrifying moment of realization. He can’t even force his hand out to shake Dylan’s in a brave attempt at seeming unaffected. He is fully, fully affected.

Seemingly oblivious to Mitch’s existential crisis, Connor smiles over at Dylan. “Yeah, we dated back in prep school, but we lost contact once college rolled around.”

Dylan drops his waiting hand and moves it to Connor’s thigh. “We met again at an admitted students event this spring and it was just like falling in love all over again, right, baby?”

“Right,” Connor smiles, then leans in for a quick peck. Mitch can feel this morning’s oatmeal churning uncomfortably around his stomach.

“Congratulations,” he says faintly before forcing himself up from the bench. His entire body feels faint and woozy, like he’s walking through a dream or thick fog. “I have to— I’ll catch you later, I think.”

“Nice to meet you, Mitch,” Dylan says in that same sickly tone. “I’ve heard _so_ many interesting stories. See you in class!”

****

Mitch is still heaving a little bit when he parks in front of the nearest ice rink. He’d cried into Zeus while he called an emergency FaceTime meeting with his friends, but his head is still too full. All he wants is to lace up his skates and do laps until he collapses.

He really doesn’t have time to do this and should probably instead go back to his dorm to and do all the readings he’s apparently missed, but he’s not in a functional state at the moment.

“Hi, how much for admission to public skate?” Mitch asks when he reaches the window. He definitely looks a little insane right now, which is likely why the long-haired guy gives him such a disgruntled look.

“Our public skate hours don’t start for another hour,” he replied.

Or that could be the reason.

Mitch sighs, hoping he looks pathetic enough to be allowed inside, and the dude just rolls his eyes. “You can pay and just sit around at the tables if you want. I don’t care.”

“You’re my hero,” Mitch tells him. At least here, he can be around familiar sights and sounds instead of staring at the four walls of a room he’s quickly grown to hate. He wonders if they’d let Zeus in, but now’s probably not the time to ask.

“Whatever,” the guy says, taking Mitch’s $5 and waving him through.

It’s not a shabby rink. There’s two pads and all the stands look to be in decent condition. He settles himself down at a table by concessions and pulls out his phone, resigning himself to a boring wait and trying to focus on just processing what the fuck happened to him today.

He’s just rested his head on the table when someone sits next to him and says, “I do not recommend putting any body part on these tabletops. Our employees are mostly teenagers who have never cleaned in their lives.”

Mitch immediately pulls his head up, then turns to look at the guy sitting next to him. He’s a pretty hulking dude with a very chiseled jawline and unbelievable flow, and he’s looking at Mitch with a sympathetic smile.

“Bad day?” He asks, then places a styrofoam cup of concession stand hot chocolate in front of him. Mitch isn’t quite sure where he pulled that from, but he appreciates it regardless.

“I got kicked out of my first law school class and found out my ex-boyfriend, the guy I got into Harvard Law just to get back, is engaged to the man who made me look bad in that class. Also my dog spilled water all over my bed.” The last one is a less pressing but still incredibly annoying.

“Sucks, man,” the guy says, pushing the hot chocolate a little closer. “Drink this. I promise cheap Swiss Miss packets cure all.”

“Thanks,” Mitch says, then because he’s a polite guy, holds his hand out. “I’m Mitch by the way.”

The guy snorts at the outstretched hand, but he shakes it regardless. “Matt Martin, but everyone just calls me Marty.”

“Oh my god, I’m a double M name too!” Mitch says excitedly. “Mitch Marner.”

“We can form a club,” Marty replies. He’s definitely making fun of Mitch, which is kind of Mitch’s favorite thing. It’s like being back with his teammates.

“Do you own this rink or something?” Mitch asks. He has forty-five minutes to kill, so he might as well make conversation with one of the two people to be nice to him today. Marty shakes his head as he steals the hot chocolate that’s going cold in front of Mitch.

“If you’re not going to drink this, I will,” he informs Mitch. “Anyway, I wish. I’m just a manager. Gave up my engagement and dog to keep working here, but I just can’t leave the ice behind.”

“How’d you lose a relationship over working at an ice rink?” Mitch asks, crinkling his nose. Not the typical reason to walk out on your future marriage.

“She didn’t like all the odd hours I spent here. Then she kept the dog when she kicked me out,” Marty sighs, and his mood dims a bit. Mitch is about to apologize for being nosy when a girl in a figure skates walks by and calls out to Marty.

“I’ve finished if you want to Zamboni before public skate,” she says. Mitch can see Marty do a visible double-take at her presence.

“Thanks, Sydney,” he says, voice squeaking a bit at the end like a child going through puberty. She wiggles her fingers as she elegantly walks to the locker room— apparently some people don’t look clunky and awful walking on dry land in skates— and Marty grows three shades paler.

“Don’t say a goddamn word,” he warns Mitch, who is trying very hard to contain his teasing. Marty slides off the bench and offers Mitch a hand up.

“You can ride the Zamboni with me if you’re quiet,” he offers to Mitch’s confused expression.

“I will never promise silence, but I am a Zamboni god,” Mitch promises. He actually is. It was part of his deal to use the rink in off-hours. He had to lock up and take care of the ice.

Marty just lets out a resigned sigh. This is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship, Mitch thinks.

On his way back, he pauses in front of a dorm door with Dylan’s name on the front on the cheesy placard. He probably spends all his time at wherever Connor’s luxury condo is located, but he surely comes back occasionally. There’s a whiteboard out front with a few messages written on it, clearly serving as one of those cheesy message boards for friends that Mitch hasn’t seen since freshman year of undergrad, and he looks around the deserted hall before grabbing the marker.

Over the good lucks and smiley faces, he writes: “I don’t give up easy. May the best man win.”

****

The next morning is his Criminal Law class, which is conveniently shared with both Dylan and Connor. He makes this unfortunate discovery when Dylan walks in and catches Mitch’s eye, an evil grin curling on his face. He stalks to the row directly in front of Mitch, throws his bag on the seat next to him, and stretches out his hand behind the chair so his ring is glittering directly in Mitch’s face.

“Man, can you believe people buy princess cut engagement rings still?” Mitch says loudly enough for Dylan to hear. The girl next to him gives him a weird look, but it’s not really the point. Dylan’s back still tenses, which was Mitch’s main goal.

Connor moves into the seat shortly after, and Dylan leans in for a long, exaggerated kiss, which Mitch interrupts by tapping sweetly on Connor’s shoulder.

“I didn’t know we’d share a class!” He says. “I saw Dylan walk in alone and assumed you must have had a different class. I would’ve thought you two lived together and walked together, being engaged and all. Trouble in paradise?”

“We’re perfectly fine, thanks for the concern,” Dylan answers in the same sickly sweet tone. Connor is looking between them as if he’s gauging if quelling the catfight is worth it. He quickly just settles back in his chair. He never was one for confrontation.

The chirp on the tip of Mitch’s tongue is quieted when the professor walks to the front and calls for their attention. He’s a short guy with tight curls and a slightly creepy, Joker-sized grin.

“Welcome to Criminal Law,” he begins. “Not everyone can get an A, but the top 4 grades in this class— or the students who stand out in an exceptional way— will be rewarded with working on a case at my firm this winter. It guarantees you a good reference, a respectable 1L placement, and an actual future, so show up prepared,” he warns.

Mitch is a little distracted by the way Dylan’s rubbing his ringed finger up and down Connor’s back. It truly _is_ an ugly ring, but it should be Mitch’s ugly ring.

“Let’s begin with the first cold call of the semester,” Professor Domi says. His eyes scan the roster and land on a name. “Mitch Marner, would you rather have a client who committed a crime malum in se or malum prohibitum?”

Mitch distinctly remembers reading these definitions just last night, but they leave his brain in a panic. Still, he can’t admit _again_ that he doesn’t know the answer, so he thinks of a cop-out and just goes for it.

“Neither. I’d rather have a client who’s innocent.”

The class laughs a little, which makes Mitch smile proudly even as Professor Domi looks peeved. He’s not one for humor apparently.

“Don’t we all,” he says, unamused. “Mr. Strome, can you live in the real world and answer my question?”

“Gladly,” Dylan says, angling himself so Mitch gets full view of his shit-eating grin. He probably gets off on showing people up in class.

“I’d prefer malum prohibitum because the client would've committed a regulatory infraction as opposed to a dangerous crime.”

“Very good,” Domi praises. Dylan’s smirk grows ever wider, and Mitch throws his hand in the air.

“Yes, Mr. Marner?”

“I change my mind. I’d pick malum in se. I like danger, and I’m not afraid of a challenge.”

****

Mitch knows everyone has organized study groups that he hasn’t been invited into yet, which is fine, because it’s not like he’s trying to become everyone’s best friend.

It still hurts his feelings a little, and Nick from the rink gives him a side-eye when he says it.

Mitch has started spending a lot of free time here, doing readings in the stands or following Marty around to help with chores. It also means he’s befriended some of the regulars as well. Nick is a teenager that’s 100% going to end up in some pro league, but he’ll sit around for hours asking Mitch what he could fix with his play and looks up to Mitch’s experience. It’s really nice, but Nick is also brutally honest about Mitch’s complaints in a way Marty is too kind to be. You win some, you lose some.

“Just show up with some, I don’t know, cupcakes or something, and invite yourself in. The worst they can say is no, and if they already hate you, what’s the harm in that?” Nick offers. It’s kind of a reasonable idea but potentially has a very embarrassing outcome, which Mitch tells him.

Nick scoffs. “Keep making all the excuses you want, but don’t cry to me when Dylan and Connor have their wedding day and you’re a Harvard drop-out.”

“Bro,” Mitch says, mortally wounded. He’s literally the nicest kid ever, but Mitch sucks at being told the truth. “Ugh.”

Nick checks his phone and grabs his bag, which means it’s probably time for his private lessons, but he still takes the time to say, “You bitch because you know I’m right.” Then, halfway down the stands, “You’re staying for my lesson, right?”

“I expect compensation for all this free coaching,” Mitch calls after him, followed by, “Of course, bud.”

It’s therapeutic to watch Nick run drills that Mitch hasn’t had to suffer through in months, but it’s not exactly engaging, so it lets his mind wander. The thing is, he does know when Connor and Dylan’s study group meets, and there is a really good bakery on the way home from the rink. He could make it there if he just skips out on public skate today.

****

He regrets everything when he rocks up to the table in the library with a bakery box in one hand and backpack in the other.

“Hey, I’m here to join your study group,” he begins when no one looks up to acknowledge his presence. He ignores the “ _oh, goodie!_ ” muttered under Dylan’s breath and Connor’s subsequent snort.

“I brought baked goods,” he offers when there’s no response. Half the table continues looking at their computers. Still, that’s not an outright no, so he pulls up a chair and slides it into an empty spot.

Dylan looks at him disdainfully. “No one said yes. Our group is full.”

“Didn’t realize you were the spokesperson for everyone,” Mitch snaps back, placing the white box on the table and setting his CrimLaw book down beside it.

Connor reaches for the box, ready to open the lid until Dylan slaps his hand away and glares. “Anyone here actually want Mitch to join us?”

Everyone keeps their eyes firmly staring at the table, book stacks, or anywhere besides the two of them. Mitch turns his eyes to Connor, trying to silently plea for some rationality, but he just casts them downward as well.

“You’re dismissed,” Dylan says, sweeping his arm toward the door. “You can take your pastries and try to bribe some other group.”

Connor gives him a shrug, like _what can you do,_ which could be answered by ‘literally just use your voice, Connor,’ but Mitch takes the hint. He’s not wanted here.

“Fine,” Mitch says haughtily. He grabs the box before the guy across the table can take a cookie from it. No vote, no sugar.

He tries to stalk off with as much dignity as possible, looking for even one familiar face. Matthew’s group is sitting a few tables over, but he raises his hand as if to tell Mitch to stop before he even approaches.

“Not interested,” he says. “You spent your spare time in college getting concussions instead of studying. We’re not a charity group. You don’t get our outlines for free.”

“I was just going to offer you some pastries,” Mitch lies. He really doesn’t have a need for them, and he guesses he’d rather Matthew eat them than Dylan. Megan from orientation is also in this group and lent him a pen the other week, so he drops them in front of her spot.

“By the way,” he tells Matthew on his way out. “Your haircut makes you look like a poorly-groomed poodle.”

It really is bad, half-shaved on the bottom with a weird ring of curls sitting above it, but it doesn’t make Mitch feel any better. Now he’s just a dick who got rejected from two study groups.

He’s absolutely never following Nick’s advice again, he thinks as he walks back out in the October chill. Instead of skating or getting in on their study group, he gets to spend his night moping into Zeus. Even he has more of an active social life through his dog park friends than Mitch does right now.

He FaceTimes Zach and it helps a little, but he still stays awake for too long that night, ignoring Nick’s text wondering how it all went to focus on wishing he never came here at all.

****

He spends the next days trying to disappear into his seat during class except when Connor shows up and tosses a wide grin Mitch’s way like nothing had happened. That, at the very least, gives Mitch a bit of a confidence boost.

Marty notices Mitch’s shitty mood and offers to let him sharpen all the skates. He knows he’s being used for free labor, but he also thinks it’s kind of satisfying to have a pile of freshly sharpened skates in front of him. Plus, Sydney the pretty figure skater likes to hang around and Marty is absolutely useless at forming words around her, so Mitch is doing his best to wingman.

The best news he gets is a call from Willy after a particularly grueling CrimLaw class where Mitch stumbled through his answer only to arrive at a half-wrong conclusion.

“What’s up?” Mitch asks, settling into his chair and hoping for a good excuse to avoid work for the next few hours.

“Not much,” Willy shrugs, clearly trying to look casual. Mitch can spot an uncontrollable grin waiting to burst beneath the surface. “I’m just engaged or whatever.”

“You’re _what?”_ Mitch screeches. Like, he knew Willy had met a girl he was really into back in August, but it’s been maybe two months of dating. This is fast, even for Willy.

He lifts up his finger and waves it into the camera for Mitch’s viewing pleasure. It’s a simple silver band with one diamond, which is way less gaudy than Mitch would anticipate. “She proposed to me last night.”

“Bro,” Mitch says, utterly floored. “When’s the wedding? Can we please go tux shopping soon?”

Willy shrugs, totally carefree. Mitch hasn’t seen him this relaxed in a very long time.

“We might wait until summer so both our families can make proper travel plans. I’ll keep you updated. For now, I’m just… really happy, I think.”

Mitch’s heart squeezes a bit. He wishes more than anything that he could be there to hug Willy in person. This is the biggest news ever, and he just wants to take a day to celebrate Willy. He hasn’t even _met_ the bride-to-be for longer than a short appearance on their calls.

“I’m so happy for you,” he says softly. He and Willy don’t really do the gushy friendship stuff, so he tries to relay all the love he can into that statement.

“I need to call Zach and my family and shit,” Willy tells him, looking sorrowful to hang up. “But I promise we’ll talk soon. I expect you and Connor to be there on my wedding day.”

“I’m working on it,” Mitch says. He and Willy say their goodbyes before the impact of Willy’s last words hit.

 **Mitch Marner:** wait, did you tell me before your fucking parents??

 **Mitch Marner:** and before zach, but I always knew you loved me best

Willy isn’t going to be quick to answer, so Mitch puts his phone back in his pocket. His body is still buzzing with adrenaline however, and he figures he might as well get another walk in for Zeus before bed.

“C’mon, Zeusy,” he says as he pulls the leash from the hook by the door. He opens it enough to encourage Zeus to get up just as he hears someone walk by.

“I know it’s last minute, but if we can just throw it at your place, I promise this will be a killer party. I’ll invite most of the 1L class, I think.”

Mitch sticks his head into the hallway immediately. He hasn’t heard so much as a whisper about a party in the months he’s been here and he’s not passing this opportunity up. “Someone’s actually throwing a party around here?” he asks.

His heart sinks when the head of curly brown hair turns around and reveals Dylan on the phone, staring daggers into Mitch.

“No,” he replies coldly. He clearly wasn’t looking to extend an invite to Mitch.

Thanks to some divine intervention, Zeus takes that moment to trot out beside him. Dylan visibly softens at the sight.

“Who’s this?” He asks, clearly trying to sound disinterested. Mitch knows his dog is extremely fucking cute, however, and might also be his ticket to an invite.

“This is Zeus. You can pet him if you want.”

“Dumb name,” Dylan mutters, but stretches out his hand for Zeus to sniff. In no time, Zeus has shoved his head into Dylan’s hand, which scratches at Zeus’ favorite spot behind the left ear and makes his tail go wild.

“So, you’re having a party?” Mitch prompts again before Dylan can get too lost in Zeus’ eyes.

Dylan heaves out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I’m having a Halloween party tomorrow night at Connor’s. Text him for the address. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

Mitch internally fist pumps but externally just does a cool, collected nod. “Sick, man. Is it a costume party?”

Dylan’s head cocks for a second and he rises up with a smile. “Yes, actually. Definitely. Go all out or don’t bother coming.”

He gives Zeus one final scratch goodbye and heads back down the hall. Apparently he hasn’t hung up the phone, because he picks it back up to his ear.

“Just sent out my first invite, I guess,” is all Mitch can hear before Dylan disappears into his room.

Mitch wastes no time texting Connor for his address and giving Zeus a celebratory hug. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispers into Zeus’ floppy ears.

Zeus can’t really understand what he did right, but Mitch slips him an extra treat anyway. At the very least, Mitch won’t look like a friendless loser on Halloween.

Which brings him to the most important question: what the fuck is he supposed to wear?

****

The closer he gets to Connor’s place, the louder he can hear the music get. It’s not exactly the most popping playlist, but it could be worse. He takes a deep breath before he opens the door, straightening his shoulders and ready to do his most seductive walk straight toward Connor.

He walks into a room full of classmates he vaguely recognizes, all dressed in plain clothing. He wrinkles his eyes at Tkachuk’s sweatpants and stained t-shirt.

“What are you dressed as, a man who lives in his parent’s basement?”

“I don’t even have to ask to know you’re dressed as a whore,” Matthew replies. It’s objectively a respectable comeback, even if Mitch thought they’d left derogatory terms for sex workers back in 2012, so he lets it go. Besides, he has a more important mission ahead.

The further he weaves his way through Connor’s apartment, the more apparent it is that he’s the only one who dressed up. He rolls his eyes. If Dylan really thinks Mitch is going to get embarrassed over being the only person in a costume after he’s survived several weeks of cold call humiliation, he’s clearly underestimated Mitch’s strength.

He eventually finds Connor outside, talking to a guy that must be a 2 or 3L.

“Connor,” he says, tapping his shoulder. Connor makes his excuses, then turns to look at Mitch.

“Hey, Mit— woah,” he says when he finally gets an eyeful of Mitch’s costume. His eyes wander up and down, spending extra time lingering over the collarbones he knows Connor was once obsessed with leaving hickies over. “You look criminally good.”

Mitch grins, tugging at the torn-up orange jumpsuit and twirling the attached handcuffs around his finger. “You might have to get locked up with me for that bad pun.”

Connor licks his lips, eyes moving to his exposed stomach. “I wouldn’t mind sharing a cell with you. Besides, I have a connection to a law student or two.”

Mitch hums, leaning in a little closer to Connor’s chest and letting his hand wander over it. It’s Dylan’s own fault he left Connor alone and couldn’t be bothered dressing up for him. “It’d be nice to get some time alone. I haven’t gotten to see you.”

Connor sighs and leans in a little more to Mitch’s touch. “Tell me about it. I’ve just been so busy with class and case studies. I think I spend most of my life outlining.”

“I can’t imagine trying to do all this on top of Domi’s internship,” Mitch agrees. He’s not totally delusional— he knows he’s not even remotely guaranteed the position, but he’s received mostly good grades so far on assignments he’s heard the rest of his classmates groan over. Cold calls may not be his strong suit, but he thinks he has at least a shot.

Connor does a little awkward laugh, though, just a puff of air escaping his chapped lips. “C’mon, Mitchy,” he says, rubbing a hand over Mitch’s arm and squeezing at his bicep. “You don’t actually think you’re getting that, right? Like, you know you need good grades? You’re a nice guy but you’re not exactly a genius.”

He’s had plenty of people write him off as nothing more than a dumb jock. His dad still does it, but Mitch became numb to his words a long time ago. It doesn’t really hurt when it comes from a bunch of strangers who don’t know shit about Mitch’s life or grades. From Connor, a person whose opinion Mitch respects so deeply, it hurts on a level he’s never experienced. HeM can’t tell if the sound in his ears is the beer bottle cracking as it drops from his hand or the flood of anger so scarlet that Mitch can’t even think clearly. “Excuse me?”

Connor seems to realize he’s gone too far and lifts his hands in the air to proclaim innocence. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Did we not get into the same law school?” Mitch asks. “From the same undergrad? Did I not score 3 points higher than you on the LSAT with self-studying instead of the 3 tutors you had?”

“Woah, Mitch. You’re overreacting.”

Mitch makes his voice louder. “Are we not in the same classes?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?” Mitch asks, crossing his hands over his chest. The glass crunches under Connor’s feet when he tries to get closer while Mitch scoots away.

He looks into Connor’s eyes, which are darting around, making sure there’s no scene. Again, like _always,_ exactly like when he ended their relationship, he cares more about how he looks than what Mitch is feeling.

“I’m just never going to be good enough for you,” Mitch realizes through a painful lump in his throat. “It doesn’t matter what I do. You think I’m some dumb twink you can just toss aside for a rich boy you labeled marriage material.”

Connor tries to speak again, but Mitch stops him. “I don’t want to hear it. I really, really loved you, but right now, I don’t even know if you’re capable of love.”

He turns on his heel and walks back through the balcony doors. He doesn’t expect Connor to chase him, and true to that thought, no one follows him out.

He walks by Dylan and Megan from orientation slipping 20 dollar bills into Matthew’s hand on the way out.

“You deal now?” Mitch says snidely, trying to cover up his trembling lip.

Dylan snorts. “Please. We’re just hedging our bets on how long you’ll last before you either fail out or quit.”

So much for Megan being the only nice classmate.

Mitch snatches the money out of their hands. “I win. I’m not going anywhere. Write this off on your taxes as a charitable donation to those on financial aid while your daddy buys your grades. I’m going to earn Domi’s internship.”

He stuffs the money into his pocket and manages to make it to the door before the single tear streaks down his cheek and settles into the dip of his collarbone.

That will be the final tear he sheds over Connor McDavid, he decides. He’s never going to completely give up on him, not when he truly cares for him this much, but it’s time he stops fighting so hard. First in the class instead of first to the altar is the biggest win of all.

He shivers the entire way to the ice rink. Luckily it’s within walking distance of Connor’s place. Mitch isn’t wasting the three hours he’s already paid for parking by driving there.

It’s nearing closing time and Mitch hasn’t ever shown up this late, but luckily Nolan the window guy is still sitting around, head on his hands and half-asleep.

“Is Marty here?” Mitch asks, tapping on the window. Nolan doesn’t even open his eyes to check who’s asking, just points in the general direction of pad 2.

There’s someone on the ice when he walks in, and Marty is standing around watching.

“Hi,” Mitch says, standing next to him.

“Hey,” Marty says, then takes in Mitch’s attire. “What—”

“Don’t ask,” Mitch orders, settling on the bench behind then. The bleachers are freezing on his mostly bare thighs, but he sucks it up. His feet are starting to blister from his shoes.

“I’m just waiting for this guy to finish up. I let him use the ice sometimes in exchange for some free legal services. His time is almost up, then we can Zamboni. Might wanna put on some real clothes first, though,” Marty says, eyeing the numerous holes in the material.

“Don’t have any,” Mitch shrugs. “It’s fine. I’ll just wait for you to finish.”

“You know I can’t take you home with me, right?” Marty snorts. “You’re not a stray dog.”

Mitch tries to look as pathetic as possible, but Marty isn’t buying it. “You’re young. Go to a bar or something. Talk to a person your own age.”

The dude finally skates off, a small collection of pucks and crappy wooden stick in hand. “I’m all done for the night, Marty. Thanks again.”

His face is kind of shielded by a helmet (who actually wears a helmet for a one-person session?), but he flips it off to reveal Auston’s dumb face.

“You skate?” Mitch asks at the same time as Auston asks, “What the fuck are you wearing?”

“We’re not allowed to ask,” Marty informs him. Auston shrugs.

“Don’t really care that much. Good to see you, Mitchy.”

“You can’t hold that nickname over me forever,” Mitch protests, but Auston’s already walking away.

“ _That’s_ who you’re getting legal services from?” Mitch asks. “A 3L?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Marty informs him sagely. “Let’s get you a hoodie from the gift shop so you can do all the Zamboni work for me.”

It’s not exactly how he thought he’d end his night, but it isn’t the worst outcome in the world either.

****

Mitch pointedly walks past Connor’s study group the next morning, ignoring Dylan’s whispers to his table mates, and slams his books down on a nearby table. He doesn’t need their bullshit. He’s going to learn the same shit but better, and he isn’t going to rely on anyone else’s work to get these readings done like they are.

\--

“Mr. Marner, can you tell me the purpose of diminished capacity?”

Mitch swallows nervously, then speaks. He knows for a fact that he read this during his pre-class review. “To negate mens rea?”

Domi raises his eyebrows in surprised approval, then moves onto his next victim while Mitch hides his smile behind his sleeve.

\--

Marty is showing Zeus pictures of Jax, the dog his evil ex is keeping from him, and telling him how cute they’d be together.

“Is your dog gay?” Mitch asks. Nick’s supposed to be quizzing him on Civil Procedure right now, but apparently his lesson was more important. Marty is clearly more pre-occupied with other things to help.

“He could be,” Marty says. “Don’t assume my dog’s sexuality.”

“I’m sure you two will live a very long and happy life together,” Mitch informs Zeus before returning to his book. “What the fuck does any of this mean? Can I steal Nolan to quiz me?”

Marty sighs and turns off his phone, reaching his hand out for the book. “My customers and employees are not your private tutors, Marner.”

He asks about evidentiary support anyway and sends Nolan along when he has to take a call. Not a tutoring service, Mitch’s ass.

\--

He’s listening to a review podcast as he runs on the treadmill in the campus gym when Dylan takes the one next to him. Mitch can see him setting both the speed and slope to exactly one above Mitch’s and takes out a headphone.

“Hey, Strome. What are the facts of _Pavan v. Smith_?”

Dylan looks at him, clearly thrown off. “It— what?”

“Damn, behind on the reading?” Mitch asks, voice dripping with fake sympathy while he hops off the treadmill. He was always more of an elliptical guy anyway. “Good luck in class today.”

He can see Dylan frantically googling the case while Mitch walks away. It’s actually not in their assigned reading until next week, but it’s funny to watch him panic.

\--

There’s one week until Domi announces the internship winners, and Mitch has had his application for the position half-filled out since Halloween. He knows he’s going to submit it, but he really, really wants to impress Domi one last time before he clicks send. He needs to be memorable when it all gets reviewed.

Currently, however, Connor is giving the facts for _State v. Latimer,_ and he won’t stop droning on to give anyone else a chance to speak.

“If you look at precedent, we should turn to _Swinney v. Neubert_. Swinney was also a private sperm donor and allowed visitation rights as long as he made an agreement with the parents. If we apply the same holding here, Mr. Latimer wasn’t stalking. He had every legal right to ask for visitation.”

Mitch rolls his eyes. Connor is taking the most basic side he could on this case. There’s not a single creative thought or original idea anywhere in this statement.

Megan raises her hand, and Domi indicates for her to go ahead. “But Swinney was a one-time sperm donor whereas Latimer was a habitual sperm donor who harassed the parents. He wasn’t just politely asking for visitation.”

Connor leans on his elbow and replies disdainfully. “But without his sperm, the child wouldn’t exist. Though his methodology wasn’t perfect, all legal precedent says he has a right to seek visitation.”

“Glad to see you’re all thinking like lawyers,” Domi says approvingly. “Now—”

Mitch throws his arm in the air. He can’t listen to Connor getting fawned over as if that was an even remotely respectable take.

Domi sighs, but he motions for Mitch to go ahead.

“Although Mr. McDavid makes an excellent, if non-unique, point,” Mitch begins, narrowing his eyes at Connor, “I have to wonder if the defendant kept a thorough record of every discharge of sperm he experienced throughout his life?”

The class breaks into choked giggles around him, covering their mouths as if they’re desperately trying not to come off like immature children. “Go on,” Domi says, ignoring the commotion.

“Well, unless the defendant attempted to contact every single one night stand to determine if a child resulted from it, which no facts claim he has, then he has no real parental claim whatsoever over this child. Why this sperm? Why only after the child has come into wealth? There’s a clear motivation here, and it’s not a sudden change of heart and desire to father all his biological children considering he only selected the one of multiple donations,” Mitch says. His words are clashing together a bit, his voice sped up by the excitement, but he can’t stop now.

“And if we’re now considering all sperm emissions to be legally his children, any orgasm where his sperm did not seek an egg could be considered reckless abandonment.”

The class gets significantly louder at those words, but Mitch just smiles proudly.

Domi shushes them all and points Mitch’s way. “I take back my earlier words. _That_ is thinking like a lawyer. I believe Mr. Marner just won our case.”

****

Mitch is halfway down the hall when Professor Domi catches up to him.

“I wanted to make sure you’re applying for my internship program. I didn’t see your name when I checked just now.”

Mitch has to contain a squeal of excitement. Domi _checked?_

“I can apply if you think I’ll be a good fit,” he says cooly. He’s definitely not in a position to make Domi beg for his resumé, but he’s busy floating on air right now.

Domi definitely does a double-take at Mitch’s daring attitude, but he claps his hand on Mitch’s shoulder anyway. “I think that’d be a good idea for both of us.”

Mitch emails the final application form during Torts and receives a smiley face back from Domi in seconds.

Mitch is so in.

****

“Aren’t you supposed to be showing up Dylan instead of Connor?” Marty asks. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly that Mitch is honestly concerned it might disintegrate.

“It was the most satisfying feeling I’ve ever had,” Mitch admits. “He always thought he was so much smarter than me and it felt nice to have him beat.”

They pull up in front of a very plain, one-story house. The weeds are a bit overgrown and it could use a fresh paint job, but it looks pretty unsuspecting. No one would pinpoint it as tue kind of place where an evil ex is hoarding Marty’s beloved dog.

“Go ahead,” Mitch urges. They parked 30 seconds ago and Marty still hasn’t moved a muscle, so he leans over and opens Marty’s door for him. He’ll unbuckle his seat belt and march him straight to the door if he has to. “Go get Jax back.”

“I can’t do this,” Marty says, pale-faced. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Auston coached you through your legal ownership rights. You’ve practiced the script a million times. Today is the day. Say it.”

Marty rests his head on the steering wheel for a second and takes in a deep breath. “Today is the day.”

“Go, go, go!” Mitch encourages, gently shoving at his broad shoulders. Marty takes a heaping sip of RedBull and slams it back into the cup holder.

“I got this,” he says, then finally gets out of the car. His shoulders are a little hunched, but he’s actually walking toward the door and knocking on it, so he’s gotten further than Mitch expected.

A blonde woman answers the door in sweatpants, squinting in confusion at her ex-husband’s presence. Mitch didn’t think it was possible for Marty to ever look small, but he watches Marty physically shrink into a shell of his giant mass.

He can’t hear the conversation from here, but it doesn’t look like it’s going well. Marty is barely getting a word in compared to some excessive hand motions from his ex.

It’s when Marty turns back toward the car, shoulders slumped like he’s about to give up, that Mitch can’t sit and watch any longer. He doesn’t know jackshit about property law or fucking dog laws, but he doubts she does either.

He storms up to the steps, sticks out his hand, and says, “Ms. Smith? Mitch Marner.”

“Who are you?” She asks dismissively, running her eyes over his sweatpants. It’s a fair reaction, really. He just finished skating, so he’s not exactly in his finest form.

“I’m Mr. Martin’s attorney, and I believe you are hoarding my client’s dog. He wanted to give you the courtesy of handing Jax over without dealing with this matter in court, but I’m prepared to file the paperwork if you do not comply.”

He’s bullshitting _so_ hard right now, but she’s at least quieted down a bit. Marty is looking at Mitch as if he’s lost his mind, but Mitch keeps going.

“According to Massachusetts Law, you and Mr. Martin had a common law marriage. This entitles him to an equitable division of assets, under which your property and animals are included.”

She blinks at him, and that’s when Mitch realizes he’s never even heard her name. Marty mostly refers to her as ‘that asshole hoarding my dog.’

“Because you retained the residence, the items inside, and the dog, Mr. Martin has not received half the assets to which he is entitled. That includes ownership of the canine. He’s willing to sacrifice the remainder of his financial assets in exchange for a peaceful handover,” Mitch concludes. He’s never made up so much hot garbage in his life, but it sounds at least somewhat believable, he thinks.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, stubbing her cigarette out against the doorframe. Marty reaches around her, calling Jax’s name and waving his fingers, and a Rottweiler comes bounding out of the house, licking his face and flipping shit.

“It means I’m taking the dog, dumbass,” he retorts.

She doesn’t even complain as they walk down the steps, Jax trotting obediently behind Marty. “He’s a terror anyway,” she yells as they open the car doors.

“Because you never walk him, asshole,” Marty says under his breath, but he doesn’t turn around to start that fight. They got what they came here for.

As they get closer to Marty’s place, he breaks out into the biggest grin. “Mitch, you are my goddamn hero. I don’t know what the fuck you were talking about, but you got me my dog back.”

“All in a day’s work,” Mitch says, turning around in his seat to pet Jax. He’s a sweet-looking dog, and his tongue hangs out the side of his mouth while he takes in the rush of air on his face. “Marty has so many new toys waiting for you,” he coos. Jax is going to be so happy.

“I can’t thank you or Auston enough,” Marty reiterates.

“I’ll pass it on,” Mitch says, “but I think we’re both just glad Jax is back where he belongs. No need to thank me.”

Marty buys him a bottle of wine to pair with a McDonald’s happy meal from the drive-through as a token of his appreciation, and Mitch definitely doesn’t protest that thank you as much.

****

Mitch knows he’s about to have a good day when he walks in and for the first time, recognizes the quote on the board.

"An image and a good hook can get you into a room, but something has to keep you in that room,” Tavares reads out, then looks around the room.

“Ms. Knight? Who said this one?”

She looks petrified. “Sandra Day O’Connor?”

“Mr. Marner,” Tavares says, moving on quickly. Hilary shrinks into her seat. “Any guesses?”

“Madonna,” Mitch says confidently. There’s a few scattered giggles until Tavares nods.

“Really thought I’d have to quiz the whole room first. Good job.”

He’s carrying that small victory with him all the way to Criminal Law, but he has a mission first. He usually sees Auston hanging somewhere around this area on Wednesdays, so he sets out looking for a brown leather backpack.

He finally spots a slightly balding head hanging near the classroom and rushes over. For some reason, there’s a crowd pushing by them, but Mitch ignores it in favor of grabbing Auston’s attention. “Hey, did you hear? Marty officially got Jax back. He just wanted to thank you again.”

Auston snorts. “Yeah, I got that impression from the Edible Arrangement he sent me. He’s a good guy. I’m glad it worked out.”

“What’s everyone looking at?” Mitch asks after he’s shoved into Auston by a passerby. He recognizes most of the faces, but they all seem to be staring at something ahead.

“Oh, I’m the 3L lead on the Domi internship, so I just posted his final choices. Haven’t you looked? I assumed that’s why you were finding me.”

“No? I didn’t know you were in on this,” Mitch says. He kind of feels like his entire body is tingling. “Or that choices would be posted today.”

He can see Dylan and Connor celebrating when he gets closer, not that their spots were ever in any doubt. He’s heard whispers for weeks that Dylan’s father is one of the clients at Domi’s firm.

The path clears for him slightly, and he’s able to shove his way to the front.

Printed in bold letters, right below DYLAN STROME, CONNOR MCDAVID, and MEGAN KELLER, is MITCH MARNER.

“Congrats,” Auston says from behind him. Mitch can’t back up, or turn around, or even focus on the other names. All he sees is his name, inked definitively on the paper, telling him that his hard work did this. It wasn’t pre-made case briefs or a study group. It was _his_ brain and _his_ determination.

He doesn’t care who else will be there. All that matters is that he’s right there with them.


	2. The Highs and Lows of Law School Murder Trials

He didn’t really plan on returning home for Christmas. Domi’s internship begins January 1st and it’s an expensive plane ticket for just a week’s break, but his mom offers to pay it and Mitch can’t come up with a good excuse say no after that.

His brother greets him at Pearson, at least 10 pounds of muscle gained from the last time Mitch saw him and a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Heard you’re becoming a lawyer to woo your man,” he says, then punches Mitch on the arm. They don’t get to see each other very often and they rarely ever talk, but Chris never hesitates to assert his physical, older brother dominance when they do.

“I’m becoming a lawyer because I’m good at law,” Mitch retorts. He knows Chris is joking, but it rubs him the wrong way.

“Someone’s sensitive,” Chris remarks, taking Mitch’s bag from his hand and tossing it into the open trunk. “Haven’t failed out yet?”

“Why does everyone think I’ll fail out?” Mitch asks, not bothering to hide the note of frustration in his voice. It’s like as soon as he was written off from a pro hockey career, his family thought he was capable of nothing else. “I’m not stupid. I’m accomplishing more than any of you have.”

“Sensitive,” Chris sings under his breath as he pulls out of the pick-up lane.

Mitch tugs his legs into his chest and stares moodily out the window at the passing scenery. It’s going to be a long visit.

****

He returns to campus grumpy, not even remotely well-rested, and ready to snap at anyone who looks his way.

“Woah,” Marty says when Mitch stops by his house to pick up Zeus. “A ‘thank you for watching him’ would suffice, but I’ll take your bitchy attitude, I guess.”

“Sorry,” Mitch apologizes, though not as genuinely as he probably should. “Seeing my parents puts me in a shit mood.”

“Retweet,” Marty says, handing over a beer. “Come inside. Debrief. Jax and Zeus fell in love exactly how I said they would. We can join their paws in holy matrimony.”

“I never want to think about marriage again,” Mitch grumbles, having been subjected to endless jabs about his relationship with Connor all weekend. It was the highlight of his dad’s life to find out Connor was engaged. He didn’t even react to Mitch’s prestigious internship.

“We get it, you had one failed relationship and can never love again,” Marty mocks, ushering Mitch inside. “Now being a buzzkill and watch Jeopardy with me.”

“Connor used to watch Jeopardy with me,” Mitch says mournfully.

Based on the murderous glare he’s currently receiving, Mitch will not live to see final Jeopardy, so he shuts his mouth and sits his ass on the couch as directed.

****

He rings in the New Year with a party hat on Zeus’ head that immediately goes on his story, a group FaceTime with the team when the clock strikes midnight, and a 12:01 bedtime to prepare for the first day of Domi’s internship.

He’s had three weeks to obsess over his outfit, but he allows Zeus to have final say. He sniffs everything except the blazer approvingly.

“Impeccable taste as always,” Mitch tells him, tossing it aside onto his chair. He was crazy to go for grey when the button-down also had grey accents. He chooses a smart navy blue instead, pulling it over his shoulders and taking a mirror selfie for Zach and Willy.

He sends it without a caption. They’re both going to be out for the count based on their stories from last night and he won’t get a response until after work, but he doesn’t need it. He knows he looks good.

He grabs his car keys and messenger bag, kisses Zeus goodbye one last time, and promises the dog walker will come by exactly at noon.

He runs into Dylan in their building lobby, biting at his fingernails and pacing back and forth. He’s just in a basic grey suit, almost similar to the one Mitch rejected this morning. It works on him, though the pit stains do not.

“You okay?” Mitch asks. He’s feeling generous today, even if his family’s constant ribbing over Dylan this break got tiresome.

“Uh, yeah,” Dylan says, holding his phone in the air as if it’s an explanation. “It’s just— Connor was supposed to pick me up 10 minutes ago to get coffee before work, and he’s not answering.”

It’d be so, so easy to say, “sucks!” and keep going. After their constant fighting this semester, it’s beyond tempting. Mitch of two months ago wouldn’t hesitate to dump Dylan’s desperate ass.

It’s not two months ago, however, and now they’re co-workers. Dylan doing poorly and not showing up might make Mitch look better in comparison, but it probably wouldn’t be valuable to their case if they were down a man on the first day.

“I can’t offer a coffee run, but I have a car and the same destination,” Mitch offers. He doesn’t wait for Dylan’s response, just keeps walking out the door.

He feels a brief spark of satisfaction at the sound of footsteps behind him. He may be generous today, but he’s still only human. It feels good to have Dylan indebted to him.

“Oh joy, I get to be chauffeured in a Honda Civic,” Dylan mutters. He makes it loud enough so Mitch can hear, but Mitch just keeps walking. He kind of likes that Dylan’s still too much of an ass to say thank you. It’d screw up their dynamic otherwise.

The drive is completely silent. Mitch is not turning on his music and giving Dylan any fodder to critique his taste.

“Thanks for not crashing,” he says when Mitch pulls into the building’s parking garage and gives security their names.

“Thanks for not talking,” Mitch responds, and they leave it at that.

Mitch maybe sprints up five flights of stairs, hoping to beat Dylan’s elevator and walk in earlier. They may be in a momentary truce, but first impressions matter.

“Welcome, Mr. Marner,” Professor Domi says. He motions toward the three open chairs. Megan and Auston are already seated in the other two. While Megan looks vaguely as if she’s about to barf, Auston looks like he has somewhere better to be. Probably the typical 3L mentality of guy with a secure job offer and no real responsibilities on this project except to ensure the 1Ls don’t entirely fuck the whole thing up.

Dylan bursts in a few seconds behind Mitch, hands on his knees and gasping for air.

“Sorry— elevator broke— ran,” he says between deep inhales. He collapses into the open seat next to Mitch, then realizes Mitch took the middle seat so that Connor would be forced next to Mitch and away from Dylan.

Whatever peace they formed has potentially dissolved, but it might not end up being a problem considering how Domi keeps flicking his eyes to the clock and then to the empty seat.

“I guess we’ll go ahead and get started without—” he begins, which is naturally when Connor busts through the door with an Armani suit and two coffee cups in hand.

“Sorry for my delay, professor,” he says, sidling up and setting one of the cups in front of Domi’s papers. “The line at Dunkin was unforgivable. 3 creams, no sugar.”

Domi purses his lips as if he’s unsure whether to forgive or scold the transgression. “I suppose that’s understandable,” he eventually decides. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“My pleasure,” Connor says smoothly, sliding into his chair. Dylan’s eyeing the second cup, clearly assuming it’s for him, then deflates when Connor takes a sip.

Mitch only catches the first few lines of the note Connor slides to Dylan. ‘ _Sorry, baby. Totally forgot. Was too focused on impressing—’_

The note disappears before Mitch can read further. In the first sign of defiance he’s seen from Dylan yet, be crumbles up the paper without reading it.

(He notices him unfold it and his frown go wider a few minutes later. Connor is too busy staring at Domi to notice).

“Our client is a 40 year-old man accused of killing his wife,” Domi says as Auston distributes manila folders to each of them. “His step-son claims he came in from playing hockey on the outdoor rink to find the defendant standing over the body with blood on his hands. Says he was too far away to hear the gunshot.”

Mitch opens the file, scanning the documents, then lets out an audible gasp at the defendant’s name.

“Patrick Marleau?” He asks excitedly.

“Are you familiar with the client?” Domi asks doubtfully. Mitch can feel all eyes on him.

“Am I— he’s a legend in hockey,” Mitch explains, looking around at the people around him blinking at him with no recognition. “He was forced to retire after one NHL season from injury, but he’s one of the most successful skill coaches out there. He’s trained so many stars. I attended his camps every summer until I was 18.”

“Well, he’s not your hockey idol right now,” Domi says. “He’s an accused murderer.”

“He would never,” Mitch says firmly. It’s not like he and Marleau are best friends, but he knew him decently well back in the day. He once watched Patrick gently carry a spider off the ice on his stick and release him outside rather than kill him. He finds it hard to believe that same man somehow committed murder in the first.

“Thanks for being a character witness,” Domi says dryly, “but in law, we care about facts, and the fact is that Patrick Marleau is accused of murder. I don’t really care whether he’s truly innocent or not. I just care that we win.”

Everyone else is nodding along like a crowd of bobbleheads except Auston, who gives Mitch a “what can you do?” shrug.

This is going to be a very, very long case.

****

He drags himself home feeling ten times more exhausted than he should. They didn’t do much today— mostly went over the essential documents and got some individual assignments to review the pre-trial proceedings and witness statements — but he feels like he’s been hit by 12 buses.

He’d offered to drive Dylan home, subtly jingling his keys to ask. Dylan pursed his lips together and turned back toward Connor, who placed an apologetic hand on Dylan’s lower back. For once, Mitch just felt sad for him instead of jealous.

He still needs to take Zeus for his evening walk, so he fills his food bowl while he quickly changes into comfortable clothes followed by 2 outer layers. He also has to slip Zeus’ little snow boots on to protect his pads from the salt, and Mitch kisses his nose to apologize. “I know, Zeusy. They look ugly, but they’re for your own good.”

Apparently today is a big day for meeting people in his dorm’s lobby, because Auston is leaning against a wall and scrolling through something on his phone.

“Hey,” Mitch calls out, grabbing his attention.

“Hi,” Auston says, pocketing his phone and kneeling down. “Hi, Zeus.”

Mitch is kind of impressed he still remembers Zeus’ name from months ago, but he also remembers how sad Auston got over missing his dog. “Did you get to go home and visit your dog over break?”

“Hmm? Oh, no,” Auston shrugs. “Tickets are kind of expensive for such a short trip, so. No dog.”

He looks actually sad over it, like he wanted to go home. Mitch would have happily donated the expense of his trip for Auston’s ticket instead. Win-win for them both.

“You’re welcome to join us for any walks you want,” Mitch offers. “I’d love the company.”

Auston actually cracks a smile at that. “Thanks. I’m waiting for a friend right now, but I’m actually going to take you up on that one day.”

Mitch slides a treat into his hand so he can offer it to Zeus. His fingers are kind of dry, but they leave Mitch’s tingling a bit where they overlap. He shoves his hand back into his pocket like he’s been burned.

“Here you go, buddy,” Auston says, holding his palm out for Zeus to gently take the treat from. He crunches it before pressing his wet nose against Auston’s mouth in his version of a kiss.

“Did you teach him that?” Auston asks, looking delighted.

Mitch nods. It’s one of his proudest accomplishments besides playing dead. It’s super endearing and significantly less gross than a tongue on your face.

A dude walks down the stairs then, catching Auston’s attention.

“I gotta go,” he tells Zeus. “I better see you after work more often.”

For some reason, the cold night air feels a little less biting than when Mitch walked in earlier.

****

“This is Jason,” Professor Domi introduces the next day, sticking his thumb at the balding man next to him. “He’s another attorney on the case. Please direct your stupid questions to him instead of me.”

He pauses, then adds, “I expected to be asked very, very few questions.”

Jason clears his throat and gives the group an uncomfortable wave. “Hi, all. We’re happy to have you on. As you’re well aware, this is a high-profile case, so we need all hands on deck. Remember, we’ll be heading out after lunch to meet with the defendant. Prepare yourself. You won’t be saying a word, but this is a chance to listen, and most of all, think creatively.”

The room at the Boston county jail is dark and extremely grey with barely enough lighting to properly see their legal pads. The interns and associates are seated at the far end of the table, while Domi sits right next to where Marleau will be marched in.

Obviously, Mitch doesn’t expect to be recognized a few years later, but he can’t deny that he’s a little excited to see him again. He was his idol and the entire reason his stick-handling was even worth an OHL draft spot.

It’s startling to see how old Patrick looks, marched in with a white shirt and bright orange pants that shine even in the dismal lighting. His salt-and-pepper hair once looked handsome, but it just makes him appear worn-down now.

“Patrick,” Domi says, shaking his hand. “Good to see you again. You’ve met a few of my associates, and these are our legal interns. I promise you’ll be in very capable hands.”

Patrick’s eyes don’t waver from Domi’s face. “If you’re here to ask me for the alibi, you know I can’t give it to you.”

Mitch raises an eyebrow. He’d noted in the files that there was no listed alibi, but he assumed it was because no one could vouch for his whereabouts— not because he outright refused to give one.

“You do understand you’re on trial for murder, right?” the attorney next to Mitch says condescendingly. “I promise you’d rather have your secret child or love affair revealed than rot behind bars.”

It’s almost imperceptible how Patrick’s fists tighten, but it’s there. Still, he replies politely.

“I’m very aware. Thank you for that, Mike,” Patrick says calmly. “I’m still not giving you my alibi. I didn’t do it. I came in, saw my wife on the floor, and screamed for help. That’s when Noah came in and found me.”

“He found you standing over your wife’s dead body with blood all over you, and you think you don’t need an alibi?” Domi asks.

Patrick is looking increasingly frustrated. “What reason do I have to kill my wife?”

“I can think of five off the top of my head, and the jury would buy any of them,” the dick by Mitch — Mike, he thinks Patrick said — says snidely. “We’re here to win this case. Maybe try and help yourself a little.”

“I think we’re done for the moment,” Patrick tells them through gritted teeth. Mitch would have walked out after the first accusatory sentence, so he respects Patrick’s restraint. He always was too nice for his own good.

Everyone begins collecting their things, looking unsurprised that they travelled all the way here for a five minute meeting. Mitch shuffles along in the line of people, heading for the door, when Patrick suddenly says, “Hey, wait.”

The entire room stops to look back his way, but he’s only looking at Mitch. “Is that you, Mitch?”

Mitch almost drops his legal pad in his excitement, but recovers last minute despite Dylan’s snort at his struggle.

“Yeah, Patty. Great to see you. Wish we were at a rink instead of jail, but life comes at you fast,” he jokes. It’s probably not appropriate to make jokes at the expense of a man he hasn’t seen in over 4 years that is being accused of murdering his wife, but Patty didn’t accept him to the camp for his tact.

Half the room tenses, but Patrick just lets out a hearty laugh. “Man, that’s why you were always one of my favorites. You’re a lawyer now?”

“Law student,” Mitch corrects. “You’re not that old yet.”

The bags under his eyes seem to get just a little lighter when he beams up at Mitch. “Glad to know I have at least one competent person on my side.”

****

“I’m the only person who truly believes he’s innocent,” he tells Marty, dipping another piece of popcorn into the nacho cheese and ignoring Marty’s wrinkled nose. He’s also violating approximately three NDA’s right about now, but Mitch never claimed to be ethical. Besides, Patty wouldn’t mind. All he wants is more people that believe him.

“I get that it’s suspicious he won’t share his alibi, but sometimes a person’s vibes just scream their innocence,” he agrees. He looks like he’s about to keep going until Sydney the figure skater plops down at the seat across from them.

Naturally, Marty was in the middle of scooping jalapeños onto a tortilla chip, which he proceeds to drop straight into his lap as soon as she makes her presence known.

“Shit,” he mutters trying to dab at his crotch with a napkin. Sydney’s watching with a knowing smile. She seems to enjoy how tongue-tied Marty gets around her. It’d be maybe cruel, but Mitch can tell she’s into him too and just waiting for him to get the memo.

“I wanted to let you know that there’s a big gash in the ice by one of the goals. I didn’t fall or anything but thought you should be aware before the next group comes.”

“Great, thanks. I’ll pass that on whenever the manager returns,” Mitch says sarcastically, because Marty has completely hidden himself under the table. He’s rubbing so aggressively that Mitch is a little concerned he might be killing half his sperm count, but that’s a later problem.

Syd rolls her eyes at Mitch, mouths “straight men are so clueless,” and walks away with her ponytail bouncing like a Barbie doll come to life.

“Is she gone?” Marty asks from where he’s muted by his own pant leg. Mitch pulls at the back of his shirt until he’s sitting up straight. The normally perfectly-coifed hair is a total mess. It’s all kind of pathetic to look at.

“Dude, you need to learn how to talk to her,” Mitch informs him. Marty shovels two chips into his mouth and swallows them almost whole before he answers through a mouth of leftover crumbs.

“I try, but I’m so nervous and always end up saying the wrong thing.”

Mitch can’t believe there was ever a moment where he found this man cool, he thinks as he wipes sprayed nacho crumbs off his brand new slacks. He’s more of a mess than Mitch sometimes.

“Then don’t talk,” Mitch says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re objectively hot. You just need to seduce her so much that she makes the first move.”

“Oh, right,” Marty says sarcastically. “That’ll go well. I’m always so suave around her.”

“Ignoring the fact that you just said suave,” Mitch says, tugging Marty along by his wrist until they reach the door of the ice, “I’m going to teach you a move that never fails.”

“I hate when people walk on my ice without skates,” Marty says mournfully, but follows Mitch anyway.

Mitch spreads out his arms, trying to set the scene. “So I normally did this with guys— or girls in my denial phase— under the guise of teaching them how to skate, but that’s obviously not the situation here.”

“Right,” Marty says doubtfully. He’s clearly not impressed by where this might go.

“So,” Mitch continues, ignoring the hate, “You’re going to skate out pretending you need to fix something with the rink. I don’t care what is it. Broken bench door, cracked glass, whatever’s closest to her and lowest to the ground.”

“Alright,” Marty says, a little more interested. He actually looks like he’s following along now.

“Then you just bend over, nice and slow, so she gets a full view of your butt, leg popped and everything, then stand straight back up. I call it the skate and snap.”

“The…” Marty says slowly. “I— Mitch, not to sound homophobic, but this is the gayest shit I’ve ever heard you say, and you once talked about Mark Scheifele’s eyes for an hour.”

“I’m reporting this as a hate crime, and also not weeping any tears when you two never get together,” Mitch tells him. It’s solid advice. A good ass is genderless.

Marty still looks put off, but he watches Mitch demonstrate and thoroughly explain each move.

“Your turn,” Mitch says when he stands back up. It’ll be worth getting decked if Marty and Sydney just get their shit together.

“I’m deleting these security tapes,” Marty tells him, but he does it anyway. It’s very obviously half-assed, and Mitch tells him so. He doesn’t accept partial credit, and neither will Syd.

“Fine,” Marty grumbles, and actually makes an effort. It’s much better than his first attempt, but he needs to pop the hip more.

Slowly but surely, he begins to become competent at the move, and Mitch actually claps his hands with excitement at one point. “That’s the one. Exactly like that, and I promise she’ll ask you out on the spot.”

“We still haven’t fixed the issue of me not forming words around her,” Marty points out, but Mitch shrugs off his negative energy.

“That’s a problem for the date,” he dismisses. He only has time for so many crises at a time. “Just remember that I get to be the best man.”

Marty is left sputtering behind him about how Mitch is moving _way_ too fast with these assumptions, but all it does is make him slide and fall flat on his ass in his attempt to catch up.

“Don’t break your tailbone,” Mitch warns, projecting his voice enough for Marty to hear. “That’s your breadwinner right now.”

****

The only good thing about trying to balance this insane internship during the semester is that Professor Domi has an in with all the other professors, who understand the rigors of this job. They get exempt from cold calls (“Thank god,” Megan tells him when they’re slaving over a pile of papers late one night. “I don’t think I’ve absorbed a word of our cases in at least two weeks.” Mitch is reluctantly forced to concur).

The best thing, however, is when they’re allowed to skip classes instead of just working around class schedules to come into the office. Today is another pre-trial step of witness testimonies, and all their professors have forgiven absences for this phase so as long as they come to office hours.

First up is Noah, Patrick’s step-son, who is glaring at his step-dad with so much vitriol in his eyes that even Mitch wants to admit to the crime.

“I was staying at home because of my concussion,” he tells the prosecutor. “I was allowed to take it easy and skate again, so I decided to play on the rink in our yard. I was just shooting pucks at the net when I suddenly heard screaming from inside. I ran inside and found Patrick standing over my mom’s body, all bloody.”

“Can you identify if the person you saw is sitting in this room?” She asks. Noah nods grimly, pointing his finger directly at Patrick’s grizzled face.

“He’s right there.”

“Did you see a weapon?”

Noah shakes his head. “No, he got rid of it.”

“Objection!” Domi states. “Conjecture.”

“Sustained,” the judge agrees. “Please stick to facts, Mr. Hanifin.”

Noah heaves out a sigh but rephrases. “No, I did not see a weapon.”

“Was there any reason for you to believe that the defendant had shot your mother?”

Noah doesn’t bother hiding the condescending snort this time. “Yes. The body on the floor and the bullet through her head.”

****

“That went well,” Domi says sarcastically when they convene back in the conference room. His hair is wrecked from the number of times he’s run his hands through it, frizzy and standing up in every direction. “Strome, please go get me a coffee. No one is leaving until we either have an alibi or a hole in someone’s story.”

They’re trekking out well past 9 that night, defeated and leaving the remaining work to the real attorneys, when Auston catches up with Mitch.

“Sorry if it’s kinda late to ask this, but could I take you up on that walk?” He asks, a little embarrassed. “I think I could really use a dog right now.”

Marty had already exhausted Zeus by taking him to the dog park when Mitch texted about his emergency Domi delay, but another walk couldn’t hurt. “Yeah, dude, of course. I’m picking him up from a friend’s house, but I’ll meet you outside my dorm.”

Auston’s waiting inside the lobby with a massive hot chocolate and shy smile. “I don’t know your coffee order, so I just grabbed hot chocolate. Figured it keeps us equally as warm.”

“You’re my hero,” Mitch tells him. It’s nearing February, and the chill is getting worse instead of better. He hands Zeus’ leash over to Auston— he wants to walk, he gets the responsibility— and holds the door open for them to head outside.

It’s quiet at first, mostly because the majority of their conversations are about murder and paperwork instead of anything real, but Auston eventually breaks it.

“Found out something interesting from Connor today,” he says. “Which, by the way, did not know you dated. The whole fake rivalry thing with you and Dylan makes more sense now.”

“It’s not fake,” Mitch says, offended, but that’s also not exactly the point. “What did he tell you?”

Auston elbows him in the ribs, careful not to unbalance him too much and make Mitch’s drink slosh onto his hand. “When were you going to tell me you should’ve been some NHL hotshot?”

Fuck Connor for thinking that’s his business to share with anyone, honestly, because he knows how sensitive the family issues were that led to Mitch quitting the OHL and pulling himself from the draft. It still stings to this day.

“I don’t know why he would tell you that, but like. I guess I could’ve had a chance.”

Auston winces. “Sore subject?”

“Maybe a little,” Mitch admits. He thinks he wouldn’t mind telling Auston, which surprises him. He hasn’t even told Zach and Willy the full story. Something tells him Auston would be understanding. He’s not sure if it’s because Auston saw firsthand how bad Toronto is over hockey and could maybe understand why Mitch’s dad is like that, but he also just randomly trusts him more than he probably should.

“Subject dropped,” Auston agrees. “Instead, can we please discuss Zeus’ snow boots? Why are they orange?”

“They protect him from the salt,” Mitch protests, trying to defend Zeus’ honor. He’s already embarrassed enough having to put them on, and he doesn’t need any more slandering. There’s only so many color choices in dog fashion.

They walk a little longer than the probably should considering they have a 7 A.M. start time ahead of them, but it feels good to laugh about something besides this case’s inevitable doom.

****

Their lunch break conveniently coincides with the start of visitor hours at Boston County, and that’s exactly where Mitch heads the second Mike, the attorney supervising them while Domi is occupied with pulling out his hair, releases them.

“Name and ID,” the security guard in the front orders, barely looking at what Mitch scribbles down on the paper and not glancing at the license once. “Are you here as a licensed attorney or family?”

Mitch pauses for just a split second before he answers, “Family.”

“Thank you, sir. Follow this officer here for your pat down.”

By the time Mitch makes it through security, he has about ten minutes to get an alibi from Patty before he needs to run back to the office building.

They’re not seated at those glass barriers with telephones like Mitch always saw on TV. Instead, they’re in a room with tables and a few other reunions.

“Apparently it’s because I’ve been non-violent, and this is my big reward,” he informs Mitch. He’s trying his best to do jazz hands while still handcuffed, it appears. God, Mitch really missed him.

“Orange seriously isn’t your color,” Mitch tells him. They should reward him by giving him real clothes instead.

“I’m so glad you’re here and not Domi or Babcock,” Patty says. It’s clearer in this lighting than far away in a courtroom just how much of a toll jail has taken on him. His skin appears sagged and yellow, and he’s visibly lost a decent amount of weight, almost to the point of looking ill.

“Domi means well,” Mitch promises. He’s not going to make excuses for Mike.

“I guess,” Patty shrugs. He looks downtrodden for a second but puts a smile on his face and looks back up at Mitch. “What brings you here?”

Mitch squirms uncomfortably. He _knows_ Patty isn’t going to like this, but he has to ask.

“I need your alibi.”

“Mitch, you know I can’t tell you,” Patty says desperately. “You’re just doing your job, but it’ll destroy my career. There’s no point getting out of here if I have nothing to go back to.”

“What do you mean?” Mitch asks curiously. Of all possibilities, he never really considered it having to do with Patty’s skill coaching.

“I—” he looks around, casting suspicious glances at the guards around him like they’re just dying to know his secret alibi. “You need to swear on your life you won’t tell anyone.”

“You have my word,” Mitch promises, and he means it. The last thing he’s going to do is betray Patty’s trust when he hasn’t opened up to anyone about this information yet.

Patty exhales deeply. “You know I’ve built my career off being self-taught. Beyond my one year pro, never used anything besides my natural hockey instincts to help coach players. My entire gimmick is that I’m so naturally gifted at coaching, I don’t need technology or any of the modern bullshit, and that’s why players trust me.”

“Of course. You saved my backhanders.”

“Except I didn’t _really._ For the past 6 years, I’ve been meeting with a video coach. We review game footage of all my clients, he teaches me analytics, and we base half our training on this. I use my own observations for the rest of it, but I’m a fraud, and I’d never get hired again if they found out,” Patty says. He sounds genuinely distraught.

Mitch has to admit, he’s surprised that the guy he had to teach to use his phone camera is learning video coaching, but it’s not the end of the world. “You have helped advance so many player’s careers. They’re not going to be upset you used more tools to make them better, but I understand why you need to suppress it. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you,” Patty says. He almost looks like he’s tearing up, but when Mitch blinks again, any hint of it has disappeared. He desperately wishes he could lean across the table and just give him a hug, but he knows the rules. Doesn’t make it suck any less.

Mitch glances at the clock in the corner. It’s counting down to the end of his time. “Listen, I need to go before Domi ends up as your cellmate for killing me, but if you need to talk at any time, give me a call if you’re not using it to call home.”

“Thanks for being the only one of my attorneys I can trust.”

“Not an attorney,” Mitch corrects, but he leaves with a smile on his face. Having a client fully and completely trust him? It feels special, even if his background helped him gain it more easily. If this is law, he wants to do it forever.

****

“Marner, can you get me a new cup of coffee?” Domi asks, though his tone clearly indicates it’s an order. Mitch is honestly just grateful for the excuse to stretch his legs, but the next words make his blood run cold.

“Then, maybe when you’re done, you can tell us why our defendant had a visitor from _the_ Wayne Gretzky yesterday. Quite a prestigious family member he has.”

Mitch swallows nervously. “I was getting his alibi.”

“And did you get it?” Connor asks, clearly expecting a no.

It’s worth the stricken look on Connor’s face to say the yes that sets himself up for a hellish questioning.

“Alright, so what is it?” Domi asks, taking his coffee from Mitch’s hand and dismissing him back to his seat.

“I can’t tell you,” Mitch says. “I promised him I wouldn’t.”

“Excuse me?” Mike says. “We’re working day and night to keep this man out of jail, and you won’t tell us because you made some kind of girly pinky promise?”

“Nothing wrong with being girly,” Megan mutters under her breathe from her stack of papers besides Mitch. She does that too often, makes quiet comments people deserve to hear, but Mitch isn’t going to make her say it and face their wrath.

“A client’s trust is valuable and something only I have, so no. I’m not going to break it.”

Domi slams his laptop lid shut. “I’m going on a walk to calm down. Auston, while I’m gone, be good and talk some sense into this kid.”

He strides out of the room, coffee in hand. Mitch hopes he enjoys the decaf.

“Are you out of your mind?” Connor asks as soon as Mike follows Domi out and the door closes behind them.

“Give them the alibi,” Dylan agrees, because of course he does. “We’ll lose this case if you don’t.”

Auston’s looking on, unconcerned, and Mitch straightens his back. “Then we’re not very good lawyers, are we?”

He turns back to annotating the case he was researching before, but not before he catalogues the proud curl of Auston’s lips.

****

Connor catches up to Mitch on their way out that night. “You know, if you tell him, you’re basically guaranteed the spot at his firm this summer.”

“I promised Patrick I wouldn’t,” Mitch says firmly. Dylan’s darting his eyes between them like he’s not sure what side to take as if there’s any real question who he’d choose.

Connor nods grimly. “I don’t get it, but I respect it. Still, you need to be selfish sometimes, Mitch.”

He was expecting more pushback honestly, so he’ll take that. “I’d rather have Patty’s trust from jail than let him be free and alone. He understands the risk of keeping it quiet.”

Connor shrugs like he doesn’t really agree and moves toward the parking garage. Instead of following, Dylan hangs back long enough to tell Mitch, “ _I_ get it. You’re doing the right thing.”

He stares after Dylan, a little shell-shocked. Maybe there’s some independent thinking in there after all.

****

Mitch is curled up on his bed the following week, Zeus snoring next to him, when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in!” he calls out. It’s a little late for someone to be showing up, but he correctly assumes it’s Dylan. His shaggy hair appears around the corner and walks to Mitch’s bed. He kind of looks like he’s grimacing, which is likely his best attempt at a welcoming smile.

“I was just wondering if I could take a look at the deposition if you’re done with it,” he asks. His arms are folded over his chest like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and Mitch feels a momentary twinge of sympathy. Dylan hasn’t exactly been his best friend, but he never really sees him spend non-study time with anyone besides Connor. In a weird way, they’re kind of similarly lonely, but Mitch at least has the guys from the rink. Dylan only has Connor.

“Here you go,” he says, handing the file over from his bedside table. “I’ve read it a million times and I’m just drawing a total blank.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says, gripping it tightly in his hand. It’s the first time Mitch has ever seen him in comfortable clothes instead of tightly buttoned shirts and black slacks, and he looks almost human.

He’s halfway to the door when Mitch calls out, “Hey, wait a sec. Do you want to maybe have a cup of coffee and just hang out for a minute? Think about anything besides law?”

Dylan’s shoulders hunch up a little as he draws his arms closer into his chest, staring at Mitch suspiciously like he’s playing a trick. “I guess, but I’ll take tea instead. I’ve made so many coffee runs for Domi that the smell makes me sick.”

Mitch has to hide a smile behind a fake cough into his elbow. “You ever noticed that Connor never has to grab his coffee?”

“Obvious favoritism,” Dylan agrees. He’s still standing awkwardly by the door, so Mitch gestures to his giant beanbag chair while he starts on boiling the water.

“Green or black tea?” He asks, busying himself with looking through the packets.

“Whatever’s decaffeinated,” Dylan answers. He’s looking around Mitch’s room, taking it all in. He cranes his head at the jersey wall and sticks his thumb at it.

“Didn’t take you for the type of guy to use jerseys as wall decor.”

Mitch focuses on putting the tea bags in their mugs, then looks back. “Probably doesn’t fit the stereotypical gay-who-likes-fashion narrative, huh?”

Dylan blushes, starting to make apologies, but Mitch just laughs. “It’s fine. Hockey was just kind of my entire life. I never thought very deeply into interior design. Doesn’t say as much about you as an outfit can.”

The electric kettle starts boiling, and Mitch pours out the water into the mugs as Dylan stands up to examine them closer.

“Too much Crosby,” he observes, accepting the mug Mitch hands him with a quiet thanks and wrapping his hands around it.

“You’re into hockey?” Mitch asks, carrying his own cup back to his bed. Dylan shrugs.

“I’m not die-hard like Connor, but I’m a Leafs fan. The three of us can have a Toronto pact to clown on all the Bruins fans surrounding us.”

“Only if Connor promises not to throw another shoe at my TV during games. His sports anger is his worst quality.”

Dylan snorts a little. “Except for—“

“Never washing his towels,” they say at the same time, then burst into uncontrollable giggles over this shared laundry trauma. It’s a little weird, laughing with Dylan, but it’s sort of a relief at the same time. Like, yeah, they _can_ get along and make the rest of this law school experience work. Also, those towels always smell like mold, and he’s grateful someone shares his pain.

“I really do love him,” Dylan says after a beat of silence. “Like, he was the biggest nerd in high school. I had to speak for him because he’d never stand up for himself against assholes. He loved writing and skating and was just so fine being a loser.”

Mitch wraps the tea bag string around his finger. “Sounds like he did a 180 in college and got a whole new personality.”

“Yeah,” Dylan says. His eyes look— Mitch wish he had a stronger adjective than sad, but it’s the definition of a kicked puppy. “He went off to school and stopped talking to me. I was just so excited to have him back in my life that I never even catalogued the changes.”

“He’s not a bad guy,” Mitch says firmly. “The way he dumped me was a bit cruel, I won’t lie, but he was never a horrible boyfriend or something. If anyone’s going to bring out his real personality, it’s you.”

Dylan stares into his mug of tea. The steam has long disappeared. “I hope so.”

“And to be clear, I was an asshole. I had no right to try and start a war over your fiancé. I should’ve respected your relationship.”

It’s been bothering Mitch for a minute now, and he’s glad he gets to vocalize it. He’s not quite sure when this shift happened or when he realized he was over Connor and happy to take a step back, but it’s how he genuinely feels. It’s kind of a huge relief to realize.

“No, I’m glad you challenged us,” Dylan admits. “It helped me realize we’re not as solid as I thought and that we’re not ready to be married or anything. We’re going to couple’s counseling, probably.”

“I really hope you guys make it work,” Mitch says softly. “I can’t wait to make fun of Connor’s bad poetry or whatever the fuck he secretly likes writing.”

Dylan cracks a genuine smile and places his cup down on the table so he can walk over to Mitch’s bed to flop next to him and scratch Zeus’ head. “No, you have to hear about this haiku he wrote once—”

And, okay, so it’s _definitely_ weird, not just a little, genuinely getting along with Dylan Strome, but it’s nice. For once, Mitch is sitting in his Harvard Law dorm room, surrounded by the most brilliant minds on all sides of him, and he doesn’t feel out of place. He just feels at home.

****

Auston waves Mitch over as soon as he walks into the office. “Don’t get too comfortable. Since you apparently have a gift for making people chatty, Domi is sending us to talk to the ex-husband.”

Mitch wrinkles his nose. “Where?”

Auston grabs a slip of paper off his desk, scanning it. “Uh, looks like a boxing gym about 20 minutes from here.”

Oh joy, a boxer. They love when well-dressed gay dudes waltz into their space and start asking members questions about their dead exes.

He still follows Auston dutifully out while sending “save me,” eyes in Dylan’s direction. He does a little sarcastic wave, clearly not envying Mitch’s assignment, then turns back to where he was bent over some papers with Connor.

Now that Mitch isn’t focused on ending their relationship, he has to admit they’re kind of cute together. Connor is definitely a bit of a jackass, but it seems like Dylan isn’t taking his shit anymore. Connor also gives Dylan these really sweet smiles when he thinks no one is looking, usually combined with brushing a curl out of his face or rubbing a hand over his back. When Mitch thinks back to their relationship, Connor was never the touchy-feely type. Something is clearly different with Dylan in the picture, and if it makes him a better person in the end, it’s a win for everyone involved.

“Can I ask you a question?” Auston asks, breaking Mitch’s people-watching from the passenger window. Mitch makes a noise that’s clearly taken as confirmation, because Auston goes ahead.

“Would you still think Patty is innocent if you didn’t know him?”

Mitch has to think on that one. It’s a lot easier to look at a person you’ve never met and believe they’re capable of murder, especially if that person is a muscled man and former pro athlete. Still, he thinks back to the first impression he ever had of Patrick Marleau.

“The first time I met Patty, he overheard my dad berating me in the parking lot before the camp began. He didn’t try to intervene, because he didn’t know if that would make things worse for me, but he went out of his way to be nice to me, encourage me, and tell me I was good enough.”

Mitch smiles back at the memories of Patty inviting him along to family dinners. It wasn’t just Mitch. It was all the guys who were a little left out or had issues at home. They’d play mini-sticks with Patty’s nephews in the basement until well after midnight. Patty always packed leftovers of people’s favorite foods so they could all have a cheat day or guaranteed meal, and he’d happily drive anyone home who needed it.

He shakes off the distraction and finishes his answer. “He wasn’t like, a replacement dad or something. It wasn’t that level of close. He just knew something was wrong and did everything he could to help without pushing me, and he’s done that for a lot of kids. I don’t think I can properly answer your question. I think he’s a fundamentally kind person, and I’d get that energy no matter when I met him, but I’m too biased here.”

“Fair enough,” Auston answers. He’s looking at Mitch kind of sorrowfully, like he’s pitying whatever piece of Mitch’s tragic backstory he thinks he’s unlocked, so Mitch kind of rushes to keep the conversation flowing. He hates pity.

“What’s your take?”

They wait until Auston’s merged over two lanes. Mitch has already shuffled through the intros of five songs before Auston responds. “I think it’s suspicious that he refuses an alibi, and there’s some pretty damning evidence. It doesn’t look good.”

“You should try having more faith in people,” Mitch retorts, a bit defensive. Seriously, is there no one defending Patty that believes him? What good does it even do to go in immediately distrusting your client? That’s grounds for an incredibly poor attorney-client relationship.

“I’ve worked on too many murder trials already to believe that everyone has good in them,” Auston shrugs, which is a very sad and incredibly jaded take.

Mitch kicks an empty La Croix can resting by his feet. Auston _would_ be a sparkling water fan. “That’s a really pathetic excuse, just so you know.”

“I know. I kind of wish I could have your worldview,” Auston responds honestly.

“Your head is big enough to fit a little more joy in there,” Mitch says.

Auston actually whips his head around for a split second, which is extremely dangerous. Mitch would prefer not to die in a Prius.

“A forehead joke?” He grins. “Really original.”

Mitch reaches over the center console to tap the hairline, careful not to obstruct his vision in the process. His forehead is a little sweaty, but it bothers Mitch less than it should. “Can’t take a chirp, Megamind?”

“Okay, that one is actually new.”

“Having it said to your face is new, maybe,” Mitch says, making sure to keep his voice light. Auston seems like a pretty self-aware guy, but Mitch isn’t trying to give him a complex. Plus, he’s the one who kind of finds him cute, which is a self-own and a little embarrassing for Mitch.

Auston swerves the car just hard enough for Mitch’s coffee to spill on his pants but not put them in any danger and laughs at Mitch’s indignant noise.

It’s going to be a very long interview.

****

It turns out the ex-husband is not a meathead. He just owns a series of boxing gyms.

“He looks way more likely to be a victim of these guys than one of their people,” Mitch mutters to Auston. The dude is kinda dweebish. He’s wearing a quarter-zip, thick-framed glasses, and is reading an actual, real life motivational book when Auston and Mitch step into his office.

This now-deceased wife did not have a discernible type, it seems.

“Kyle Dubas,” he says, shaking their hands. He carefully sets the book down, actually using a bookmark instead of folding the page, and clasps his hands together with a beaming smile. “What can I do for you guys?”

“We’re here from Domi, Spezza, & Babcock on behalf of our defendant, Patrick Marleau,” Auston says. The smile drops from Dubas’ face very, very quickly.

“I see,” he says tightly. He pushes his chair away from his desk. “I actually got along quite well with my ex. I’m not exactly pleased he murdered her.”

Auston presses a hand over Mitch’s mouth to silence him before he can protest. Mitch, feeling petty, licks Auston’s hand. Unfortunately, he clearly has siblings, because he doesn’t remove it in disgust.

“Did you ever meet Mr. Marleau?” He asks calmly. He takes his hand back to start writing notes, acting as if nothing unusual just happened.

“I never met him, but from what Noah passed on, he sounds like a giant dick.”

The hand flies right back in place.

“Can you think of any reason he’d have to hurt your wife?”

Kyle darts his eyes before leaning in conspiratorially. “Okay, you didn’t hear this from me, but Noah suggested he might be…” and pauses for dramatic effect, “gay.”

Both of them snort at that.

“Right, nothing the gays love to do more than murder their beards,” Mitch says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I actually went back for all my high school girlfriends,” Auston agrees, which, _woah._ Auston’s queer?

He’ll obviously ask permission first, but he’s kind of excited to run back to Dylan and tell him half this legal team is gay. The ratio is truly astounding. Mitch finished undergrad knowing approximately three other gay people, and one of them was his boyfriend. Small town Pennsylvania things, he supposes. Should’ve gone to a liberal arts school.

Dubas picks the book back off his desk, clearly disappointed they weren’t more into his ridiculous theory. “Whatever. When the pool boy takes the stand and tells you all the sordid details, you can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Is there a pool boy listed under prosecution witnesses?” Mitch asks under his breath. He doesn’t want to give Kyle’s theory any legitimate attention, but they kind of need to know the name.

“Morgan Rielly, who is testifying tomorrow,” Auston says. There’s a little crease in his forehead now that wasn’t there when they walked in.

“I told you,” Kyle says, kicking his feet onto his desk. “Now please leave my gym. Feel free to test out the ring on your way out. We have lots of members looking for new bait.”

****

“That is an extremely heterosexual man,” Mitch remarks to Dylan the minute the shaggy-haired blonde takes the stand. His shirt is partially unbuttoned in a clear attempt to project a stereotype of queerness, but it looks very forced. Also, it’s not that fashion sense has anything to do with sexuality— Auston’s outfit choices are a shining example — but he has yet to meet a single queer man who shrugs off a Barstool hoodie before taking the witness stand. Their entire shtick is degrading women and punching down on marginalized groups while their fans pass it off as dark humor.

Dylan 100% agrees, Mitch is sure of it, but he slaps Mitch’s thigh anyway to at least attempt wokeness. “Our people are not a monolith.”

“Can you tell me what you heard on the day of the murder?” Domi starts.

Morgan leans into the mic. “I heard a shot from the house. I didn’t go inside because I was concerned there was a robber or something and they might shoot me as well. I just called 911.”

“When you eventually saw the defendant, how would you describe his demeanor?”

Morgan puts on a baby frown. This dude is a really, really good actor. “Definitely distressed. We’re very close, but I’d never seen him cry before that moment. We spent a lot of free time together when his wife wasn’t home, so I can assure you that his behavior was unusual.”

Mitch sees Patrick whispering frantically into Babcock’s ear at the table, probably denying that any of this was the case. Mitch doesn’t quite understand the angle Rielly is going for — pretend to be on Patrick’s side so this fictional relationship gives the jury a stronger motive? If he’s trying to put Patty away for no discernible reason, wouldn’t it make more sense to lie about witnessing the act?

Domi is pacing a little more nervously now. “Can you tell me more how well you knew Patrick?”

“Gladly,” Morgan says. “We weren’t just friends. He’s been my one and only for the last four years. We were together.”

Even from Mitch’s poor angle, it’s obvious that Babcock and Spezza are both physically restraining Patrick from doing something stupid, like running over and decking this liar.

Auston and Mitch had warned Domi to expect this response, but he still looks startled that it happened, though he’s trying to maintain a calm exterior. “Can we take a recess and continue defense questioning following?” He asks the judge.

She agrees and adjourns for a brief recess, to which all the attorneys gather around in a tight group and start whispering among themselves. He watches Morgan slip out of the room and squeezes out of the bench, trying to catch up. From a distance, he can see Morgan head into the men’s restroom.

Mitch waits until Rielly disappears into a stall before taking the one next to him. He isn’t sure what he expects to uncover— it’s not like the sound of his pooping is going to reveal his lies — but his blessing comes when Morgan seemingly drops his phone on the ground and it tumbles over by Mitch’s feet.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Do you mind handing that back?”

“Sure,” Mitch says, heart racing. He reaches for the phone, despite how objectively disgusting it is to be taking someone else’s phone off a public restroom floor, and quickly holds it to his face.

“Uh?” Morgan asks when it’s been a beat too long.

“Just checking if it cracked,” Mitch says, staring at the discovery awaiting him. “You’re safe.”

“Okay?” Morgan asks, taking the phone back from Mitch. He probably thinks it’s a little weird and will immediately forget it. He isn’t aware that he just handed Mitch the key to tear his testimony apart.

Mitch still rubs his hands with soap approximately fifteen times before he runs to his fellow interns. No one wants Morgan’s poop germs near them.

****

“He’s straight,” Mitch tells them, panting a little. Dylan opens his mouth like he’s ready to lecture Mitch again, but he cuts off any potential argument.

“Morgan was in the stall next to me and dropped his phone. I saw his lockscreen. It’s a photo of him and a girl kissing and holding a puppy.”

“Holy shit,” Auston says, and immediately turns on his heel to tell Domi this discovery. Mitch can’t hold back a grin, way too proud of himself.

“The Barstool hoodie was a dead giveaway regardless,” Connor says, looking a little jealously after Auston’s reveal to the attorneys. It looks like the life has been inflated back into them a bit.

“That’s what I thought!” Mitch exclaims, holding his hand up for a high five.

Connor starts, then reconsiders. “Did you wash your hands?”

“Until my skin threatened to crack, yeah,” Mitch reassures him, and completes the distance. He gives Dylan and Megan a little celebratory fist bump as well. It’s a win for them all.

When the trial resumes, Domi strides up confidently to the stand. They’re all waiting with bated breath for his big reveal, but they wait, and wait some more, and wait some more. He keeps asking all these questions about the relationship but nothing else.

Mitch is starting to get antsy.

It seems Auston is too, because he leans over the divider and starts whispering with Spezza. Babcock is listening a bit, but his eyes are mostly trained on the ceiling and he doesn’t appear to be devoting much attention to it. Auston gestures wildly at the stand and then back at Mitch, but Spezza just looks helpless.

“Any further questions?” the judge asks when it appears Domi has run out. This _has_ to be the moment.

“I don’t believe so, your honor,” Domi says. He’s sidling back to the bench when Auston gives one final shove to Spezza’s back.

“Actually, I have a few questions for the defendant,” Jason says, stumbling over his words a little. For all that his name is on the building, he seems to live in fear of Domi’s wrath. True to that, Domi turns the evil eyes his way, but doesn’t dare argue with his fellow counsel in front of the jury.

“Go right ahead,” the judge says. Spezza clearly isn’t well-acquainted with this position, because he keeps clearing his throat nervously and cleaning his glasses on his blazer, but his questions are spoken with confidence.

“Forgive me, but do you mind if I ask a few basics just to make sure I have all my facts straight?”

“Of course,” Morgan answers. He looks bored, like all this has been far too easy for him. And, quite honestly, it has been. Domi followed a line of questioning Morgan had probably long prepared for.

“Name?”

“Morgan Rielly.”

“Age?”

“28.”

They follow down that path for a minute, going over occupation, how long he’s been with Patrick, until Morgan looks like he’s falling asleep in his chair.

“Sexuality?”

“Gay.”

Spezza nods. “Girlfriend’s name?”

“Tessa,” Morgan says automatically. It doesn’t seem like he even realizes what he did until there’s audible gasps from the room, and then he immediately starts fumbling over his words. “I mean, ex-girlfriend. Before I was with Patrick. Actually, I’m not gay, really. Just bisexual. Patrick was my only lover, though!”

It doesn’t really matter what hole he keeps digging himself into. The damage (and perjury) is already done. No reasonable juror is going to accept the gay lover narrative now.

“No further questions, your honor,” Spezza says politely, then walks back to his chair like he didn’t just save this case. He does turn around for long enough to toss Mitch a quick, and very grateful, wink.

“That man is too good for this firm,” Dylan says lovingly.

****

“And then Spezza went up there and actually used my evidence. Everyone was so shocked, and we completely ruined this insane story and motive,” Mitch tells the group FaceTime of Marty, Zach, and Willy excitedly. He’s almost through the door of the rink, but he couldn’t keep it quiet for that long. He needed his best friends to know as soon as possible.

“That’s incredible. You’re a genius,” Marty says. It’s the first time Mitch has heard him speak so far on this call— he was a little excited and talked over everyone— and his voice sounds congested.

“Hey, are you getting a cold? I don’t want to be si—”

He’s stopped cold by the sight waiting for him in the entrance. Marty’s nose is bandaged, a little blood still seeping through the gauze, and he has two black eyes.

“I got a date with Syd,” he announces proudly. His wide grin is very endearing but also reveals a missing tooth.

“Did you get run over by the Zamboni?” Mitch asks, ending the call and dropping his bag to examine the extent of Marty’s injuries. Marty shakes his head.

“I tried the skate and snap when Syd dropped her hair tie on the ice. We both bent down for it, and her elbow caught me on the way up.”

Mitch grabs his chin, smushing his cheeks together and moving the face from side to side to examine him for further injury. Everything looks generally intact, so he shoves his hands into his pockets and begins his walk to the office for Zeus, Marty following behind.

“Did her having to nurse you back to life bring butterflies to her stomach?” Mitch asks. Jax and Zeus both run to greet him as soon as they enter the back offices.

“Nah,” Marty says, expertly dodging Jax’s attempts to kiss his damaged face. “Apparently while I was gushing blood, I asked her out in my very woozy state.”

Mitch ruffles his hair like a proud father. “A medical bill isn’t the intended outcome of the skate and snap, but I’m glad you made it work in your own very fucked up way.”

Marty ducks his head. “We’re going out on Saturday, so I’ll keep you updated. Now, finish telling me about the trial.”

“Well, Jason, who is a whole ass _partner_ at the firm, told me good job—”

****

“Max— er, Mr. Domi — wants to see you in his office before you head out,” Jason tells him that afternoon. The interns are getting an early day and Mitch was about to leave anyway, so he texts the intern group chat to go ahead and order a drink for him. They’re getting lunch to celebrate not being total fuckups so far.

Domi’s door is cracked open when Mitch approaches, but he still gives it a light knock.

“Come in,” Domi says, and Mitch pushes it open to reveal a dark office filled with books, and quite unfortunately, a Habs jersey dead center above his desk.

“Take a seat,” Domi orders, motioning toward one of the ugly floral couches in the corner. They’re as uncomfortable as they look, so Mitch hopes this meeting is very short.

“What can I do for you?” Mitch asks after a few uncomfortable moments of silence. Domi puts down the papers he was holding and settles into the spot next to Mitch.

“You were right about Rielly, and I should have listened instead of forcing Jason to take that initiative,” Domi says. He’s wringing his hands together, which seems a little odd considering how otherwise calm he appears. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“It’s not big deal,” Mitch says, a little dumb-founded to be apologized to by someone so important. “Like, I’m a 1L. I totally understand the reluctance. You’re the professional.”

“Well, you’re the future of the profession,” Domi says, releasing his hands and leaning into the couch a bit more. “I’m impressed by you. I wasn’t pleased by the alibi situation, but you have our client’s trust, and you’re helping us do this without it. You’re smart, Mitch.”

“Really?” Mitch asks, barely above a whisper. He’s received a lot of outside compliments in his life— he has a nice body, great hair, fantastic athlete — but no one besides his friends have ever called him smart. This is one of the most prominent lawyers in the city assuring him that he has potential. That _means_ something.

Domi gestures around the office. “I think it’s time you consider how you can make an office like this yours. Have you figured out where you want to intern this summer?”

“No,” Mitch says, a little overwhelmed. Application season is coming up, but he’s been so busy with this trial that he hasn’t even begun looking at open positions. “I mean, it’s all so competitive.”

Domi stands up, pacing in front of Mitch. “Do you know what competition is about? Tenacity. Being willing to do what your opponents won’t to get what you want.”

He settles back down, a little closer now, and places a hand on his thigh. “What will you do to get what you want?”

Mitch’s head is filled with a million all-consuming thoughts, but he mostly thinks he’s about to be sick. All he can feel is the heat of the hand running up his thigh and the warmth of Domi’s breath getting closer, trapping him against the corner of the couch.

“I need to go,” he says, shoving hard against Domi’s body until he can struggle to the thankfully open door.

“You forgot your bag,” Domi says, holding it up teasingly. Mitch can barely see through the tears in his eyes.

As he rips it from Domi’s hands and backs away, Domi clicks his tongue in disappointment. “I’m surprised and frankly disappointed, Mitch. I thought you wanted to be a lawyer.”

“And I thought I wouldn’t have to file a harassment complaint against my professor, so I guess we’re both full of surprises,” Mitch chokes out. It’s an empty threat. He knows how power dynamics go. He isn’t winning this one. It’s still nice to see how pale Domi gets.

He hustles down the hall into the elevator. The doors are finally closing and Mitch is coming back to earth when an arm sticks in the elevator and Dylan’s face appears.

“You’re a really good actor,” he tells Mitch. The look on his face is almost one of betrayal.

“What?” Mitch asks, still trying to blink back tears and now trying to figure out what the fuck he could have done to Dylan.

“Oh, did your attempt to sleep your way to the top not work? You’re just going to cry and play dumb?” He hisses. Mitch’s heart sinks. He has no idea what Dylan heard or saw through that open door, but he clearly got the wrong idea.

“Dylan—”

“Don’t start,” Dylan interrupts. “I’m sorry that I ever thought we could be friends. Hey, while you’re at it, can you try sleeping with the judge too? Maybe then we could win this case.”

Mitch can’t talk through the choked sobs rising in his chest and Dylan seems like he’s finished his monologue, because he pulls his arm away (Mitch picked out that navy suit for him last week, he notes somewhere in the back of his very scrambled brain) and lets the elevator doors shut.

When he rushes into the lobby, he slams directly into the barreled chest of Auston. Seriously, Mitch really needs to stop running into people while he’s busy crying. It’s getting a little pathetic.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Auston asks. Mitch tries to brush away the last of his tears and send him a wobbly smile.

“I quit,” Mitch tells him. “I quit this job, law school, this stupid fucking city. I just quit.”

He starts walking toward the parking garage, Auston scrambling to catch up to him.

“Woah. Slow down. You can’t just quit after you’ve worked so hard for all of this.”

Mitch whirls around, letting the door slam shut instead of walking through it. “I didn’t work for any of this. Domi only gave me the internship because he thought I’d be the most likely to sleep with him. He made that very clear just now.”

“He _what?”_ Auston asks, clearly trying to process that, and looking very pissed off. “Wait, okay, that’s so fucked up and we can talk about it, but you can’t just quit. You’re so talented.”

Mitch walks backward through the door. “I already made up my mind. Everyone at the school fucking hates me except you. Please don’t try and convince me, and please don’t follow me.”

“Mitch,” Auston calls after him, desperation clear in his voice, but he respects the wish to stay back. Thank god for that much. “Please.”

“Text me if you’re ever back in Toronto,” Mitch calls back hoarsely.

The slam of the exit door rings in his ears long after he collapses into his car.

****

Because he’s not a total asshole, and also needs to pick up Zeus regardless, he drives to the rink. Marty and Syd are feeding each other churros and trying to fit pieces of popcorn through Marty’s missing tooth gap.

“Mitch?” Marty asks when he walks up to them, clearly alarmed by whatever hot mess is going on with his appearance right now. Mitch tried to put on a hat and look down, but it’s obviously not doing much.

He collapses into Marty, explaining what happened, how his hard work was for absolutely nothing because he was never more than a piece of ass to Domi, and that every other professor and student alike thinks he’s a stupid joke.

“Mitch, you can’t go home,” Marty says, hugging him tightly. Syd disappeared to find him a bottle of water, but probably moreso to give them some semblance of privacy. It’s prime time at the rink right now, but Mitch doesn’t think he could move if he tried.

“What choice do I have?” Mitch asks, pulling back and staring desperately into Marty’s eyes. Marty looks like he’s losing his best friend, which. Yeah, he maybe is, because Marty has become one of Mitch’s closest friends and his biggest ally in this entire awful city.

“You could choose to not let one man ruin your entire career. If you let that happen, you’re half the student I thought you were,” a voice says from behind Marty. Mitch pulls back from his grasp until he can get a proper glance over his shoulder.

Standing there, decked out in rental skates and a Leafs hoodie, is Professor Tavares, looking disappointed as hell.

“I can’t go back to that office,” Mitch says tearily. “And who else will hire me when Domi blacklists my name around this city?”

Tavares scans him up and down and seems to make a decision. Somehow, he’s still intimidating even dressed like this. “I will. Welcome to my internship program of one. We start today.”

He sits down at the table and begins unlacing his skates, then looks up like he’s confused why Mitch hasn’t joined him. “Well? Bring your dog out here so I can meet him, and then we’ll talk. You said the client trusts you more than anyone else?”

“Yeah?” Mitch says, wiping his nose on his shirt while Marty rushes off to grab Zeus per Tavares’ wishes.

Tavares points his hand toward the other side of the table. It’s a small thing, but Mitch is extremely grateful he’s not making him sit next to him, both for his personal comfort and the post-skate smell.

“Settle down. I have an idea.”

****

It’s an insane idea, but it’s one that could potentially work.

Mitch is heading back to his dorm, exhausted after the long hours he had to pull running around to put this absurd plan in motion, when Dylan steps in line with him.

“Hi,” he says. He’s nervously twisting a rubber band around his fingers until it cuts off the circulation and he starts over again.

“Can I help you?” Mitch asks coldly. His legs are much shorter than Dylan’s, but he still tries to walk briskly so Connor has to hurry to keep up.

“I’m sorry for just assuming instead of asking,” Dylan says. Mitch slows his pace a little. “Auston told me what actually happened after I made a shitty comment, but he shouldn’t have had to. I was an asshole after something awful happened to you.”

“It’s not okay,” Mitch says softly, because it isn’t, and it made a bad situation feel much worse, but he also doesn’t think Dylan’s some awful villain. He’s just a stressed out guy that Mitch purposely antagonized for an entire semester.

“I’ll let you be,” Dylan says. “Just wanted to clear the air.”

“It’s not okay,” Mitch reiterates, “but I don’t hate you or something. It sucked, but I’m not going to hold that against you.”

Dylan’s face sags in relief as they slowly approach the building.

“Hey, are you, Connor, and Megan, like, totally married to the idea of working for Domi?” Mitch asks, mind starting to stir a little. The plan is a good one, but it’s also a shitton of work for just him, Auston, and Tavares to take on. If he can get any of them on his side, it’s going to make tomorrow a hell of a lot easier.

Dylan holds open the front door, looking intrigued. “Why, what do you have in mind?”

****

When their group strides into the courthouse the next day, they’re greeted by Spezza standing in the lobby, shifting back and forth on his heels.

Mitch exchanges glances with his fellow interns, then steps forward.

“Can we help you?” He asks. He doesn’t put the malice in there that he would with the other two partners, but he doesn’t aim for total friendliness.

“I totally understand this is your team’s trial now, but I come in peace,” Spezza says. He pulls out his white pocket square and waves it in the air. Even Connor and Tavares’ stoic expressions crack at that.

“Alright,” Tavares says, pulling his mouth back to its normal disinterest. “What peace treaty do you have in mind?”

“One where I just quit my job and would love to see this case carried through as a part of your team.”

Mitch’s jaw drops to the floor. Partners don’t just quit out of nowhere. This is not a thing that happens. Today is the most surreal day of his life.

“Compelling reason,” Tavares says, quirking an eyebrow. “Let’s walk and talk. Everyone else, go inside and start setting up.”

“Did that really just happen?” Mitch says in total disbelief. Dylan throws an arm over his shoulder and guides him inside the courtroom.

“Law is _way_ more fun this year,” Auston says, still staring where Spezza has disappeared around the corner. Megan approvingly smacks Mitch on the shoulder with her notes.

“Never a boring time when Marner’s around,” she says, which is the best compliment Mitch has ever received.

Their fun dies down a little once they reach the table where Patrick is sitting anxiously in his too-big suit.

“Thank god you’re here,” he says, throwing his arms around Mitch and squeezing. Mitch hugs him back, but his stomach is full of knots. This is by far the stupidest decision any of them have ever made.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?” Mitch asks. “I won’t be offended if you want to back out and call Domi again.”

For all that Patrick still looks stressed out of his mind, he seems infinitely calmer than he did with Domi. “I’d rather lose with you than win with him, but I know you, Mitchy. We’re going to win this.”

They fist bump and settle into their chairs. Auston nudges Mitch and lets him know he’s letting Spezza take the third chair instead but sits directly behind Mitch’s spot. He keeps tugging at the hair on Mitch’s neck to annoy him while he reviews the documents spread over the table, but it’s currently keeping Mitch relaxed instead of imploding from tension.

They’re not totally batshit— Tavares is technically the lead attorney and spent the past 24 hours learning everything there is to know about this case. Mitch is mostly there for moral support and any brilliant insights that may strike, but he knows the outcome is on his shoulders.

He doesn’t have time to panic, however, because Tavares is sliding into the chair next to him with a brisk nod while Spezza takes his rightful place as lead attorney.

“Good talk?” Mitch asks.

“He has some insightful revelations Harvard Law might be interested in hearing about,” Tavares says quietly. “Also, he’s a damn good lawyer.”

Before Mitch can inquire further, the judge is entering, they’re being asked to rise, and before he knows it, the trial is back underway.

Most of the proceedings this morning are basic. Mitch winces a few times at the biting questions the prosecutor asks Patty, then breathes a sigh of relief when Spezza gets him choked up discussing how much he loved his wife. He elbows Tavares and points out one particular juror blowing her nose at his story. At the very least, maybe they can get a hung jury and it’ll be declared a mistrial. After the Morgan fiasco from earlier, the prosecutor might even decide not to re-try the case.

The real event of the day happens when Patrick’s step-son Noah takes the stand again.

He stares disdainfully over the crowd. His bronzed hair has grown out a bit since his initial testimony, and the scruff he had before is clean-shaven. Despite being 19, he looks more like a child.

The prosecution runs him through the basics, almost a rinse-wash-repeat of his first testimony. Same questions, same responses, same evil glare that deeply unsettles Mitch. He can’t identify what is throwing him off so badly, but something isn’t quite right.

When Spezza stands up to take his turn, Mitch decides to tune them out and look over the first testimony again. He gnaws at his pen, staring at the words on the page over and over again.

Cleared to skate, shooting pucks far away from the house, missed the gunshot. Outdoor rink, not exactly close to the household, took his skates off before he wandered back in the house, which explains the unscratched floors. Still, it’s just not working.

“Did the detectives on the scene ever take photos of the pond where Noah was skating?” He whispers to Tavares, who shrugs and quickly flips through the crime scene photos.

“Doesn’t look that way,” he answers. “Why?”

“Holy shit,” Mitch breathes out.

This happened in _October._ The only reasonable place Noah could have been to miss a gunshot but still be home in order to walk in on Patty’s apparent crime would be the pond, but it was fucking _October 29th_. Mitch had walked all the way to the rink that night from Dylan’s god-awful Halloween party without a jacket, a little cold but mostly fine.

Mitch scrambles to pull up the weather app, sliding through the days past until he documents a week’s worth of the surrounding dates and stares at his findings.

“Noah did it,” he says under his breathe. “Noah killed her.”

“Excuse me?” Patty says, choking on his glass of water.

“Come again?” Tavares says, looking at the open weather app in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” The judge asks. The three of them look up from where their heads are bent over Mitch’s scratch paper to find Spezza sending daggers their way for interrupting his questioning. For all Mitch knows, he was going down a fantastic line of reasoning, but he doesn’t care right now.

“My apologies, your honor. I’m going to be asking Noah a few questions.”

He ignores the prosecutors high-fiving over the law student taking over.

“This better be good,” Spezza says on his way back to the table. “I believe in you.”

It’s far kinder than the acid Babcock or Domi would have spit in his face for daring to interrupt their trial, so Mitch will take it.

He really wishes he took a sip of water before he walked up here. It’s hard to speak through his lips that are suddenly sticking together from his cotton mouth and with an entire courtroom waiting for him to make one wrong move.

“Mr. Hanifin,” Mitch begins. “Can you tell me again what you were doing at the time of the murder.”

Looking like he’s trying very hard to not bully Mitch right now, Noah re-iterates the same story. “I had just been cleared to skate, so I was on the outdoor pond. I couldn’t hear the gunshots, but I heard it when Patrick flung open the door and screamed for help. Then I took off my skates and ran back to the house. Is that good, or do you need a fifth repeat?”

“Interesting,” Mitch says, ignoring the attitude. “Are you an avid hockey player?”

Noah puffs out his chest. This is one fact he clearly doesn’t mind repeating. “I’m on the Boston College NCAA team.”

“And you were at home for the week recovering from an old concussion?” Mitch asks.

“Yes,” Noah sighs. He clearly doesn’t see this going anywhere valuable, and judging by everyone else’s faces, neither do they.

“What made you stay home after being cleared rather than returning to team practice?”

Noah shrugged. “I don’t know. I missed my mom’s lasagna.”

There are a few snickers at his answer, which Mitch resolutely ignores.

“So you had just been cleared to skate for the first time since your major concussion in August, and you wanted it to be on your pond at home?”

“I guess.”

Mitch hums again. “How were the ice conditions that day?”

“I can’t say I remember. I was a little focused on my dead mom,” Noah tells him bitterly.

Mitch can tell he’s losing the room and tries to speed to the point a little faster. “Would you agree that after a long absence from skating, the only thing you want to do is get back on the ice? Be able to condition again and help your team out?”

“Objection. Relevance?” The male prosecutor says. He’s balding, but it looks far worse on him than the distinguished shiny spot on Jason’s head.

“Mr. Marner, is this going somewhere?” The judge asks, exasperated.

“It is,” Mitch promises.

She sighs and waves her hand. “Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Hanifin, and get to it, Mr. Marner.”

Noah looks disgruntled but follows the instructions. “I mean, yeah. Of course you want to get on the ice again as soon as possible.”

“So you wouldn’t have stayed behind a few days after you’d already been cleared if the pond conditions weren’t adequate, correct?”

“I guess not,” Noah admits. He has to be the stupidest man around if he doesn’t see where his lies are going, but he really hasn’t seemed to have caught on yet. His big ego is definitely greater than his common sense.

When he looks back at the table, Patty has a gleam in his eye and is leaning back in his chair, whispering to Auston. Though everyone else may be lost, Patty clearly understands what’s about to happen.

“Do you know what temperature a pond freezes at?”

It’s then that Noah stops answering, eyes bugging a little. It took the guy way too long, but he got there in the end.

“Mr. Hanifin, answer the question,” the judge orders after a long delay.

“It begins freezing at around 32 degrees Fahrenheit.” His voice has been drained of all its previous arrogance.

“And you need multiple days of freezing temperatures. At least a week by my estimates,” Mitch says. He can feel the tension heightening in the room. No one is looking away now. “Based on the fact that you weren’t dripping wet, I presume the ice must have been thick enough to hold your weight. Can you explain to me how that might be possible considering the lowest temperature from October 22nd to October 29th was 34 degrees?”

He can see Noah trembling. The entire courtroom is dead silent except for the sound of Mitch’s shoes clicking on the floor.

It takes just five solid _clicks_ for Noah to snap.

“Fine!” He screams. “I did it! I shot her! Are you fucking happy? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

He’s seething now, and Mitch takes a few solid steps back from the witness stand.

“It wasn’t supposed to be her walking in. She never comes back that early, and _he_ always walks in at exactly 3 P.M. _She’s_ supposed to be alive,” and he lifts a shaking finger to point directly at Patty’s chest. “ _You’re_ supposed to be 6 feet under with a bullet in your head.”

For a second, the room remains quiet enough to take in every heaving breath from Noah’s unhinged breakdown, and then it bursts into pure commotion.

****

Mitch doesn’t remember much of the follow-up. He remembers Patty squeezing him so tightly that he’s concerned for the state of his ribs. He remembers the prosecutors coming over to chat with Spezza and Tavares to go about dropping the charges. He remembers Dylan hopping on his back and nearly toppling them to the ground while Connor and Megan film the whole celebration. He remembers Auston running a finger over his knuckles, kissing them lightly, and telling Mitch, “I never doubted you for a second.” He remembers running outside and seeing Marty, Zach, and Willy, the latter two who had driven all the way from Pennsylvania the minute Mitch told them he was taking over this case, waiting on the steps for him. Zeus doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but he joins the commotion and licks anyone who comes within 10 feet.

He can’t remember many of the words people said or what happened to Noah in the immediate aftermath. The general timeline he can follow, but so many specifics left his mind even as they happened before his eyes.

The next part he only remembers because it’s immortalized on the news that night under the headline: _Former NHLer cleared of all charges in wife’s murder case_.

“How did you know to look at the pond?” one reporter asks.

Mitch gives his most award-winning smile to the camera. “Pond hockey is in my blood. Any real hockey player would’ve known that you’re not playing shinny until at least November, and any real teammate wouldn’t be sitting around post-concussion waiting to commit a murder before he returns to the rink.”

**EPILOGUE**

“This is fucking stupid.”

“Shut up, Tkachuk,” Connor hisses. “This is fucking cute.”

He grabs Dylan’s hand, and Dylan tries not to feel smug about Tkachuk being here alone. He’s softened over the years, but he’s still kind of dick.

The music picks up as Megan walks down the aisle, scattering paw print confetti as she walks toward the altar. Following behind her is the little Pomeranian she adopted with her girlfriend a few weeks ago who is now serving as the ring bearer. He isn’t very good at walking down the aisle, and they all have to pretend they don’t notice him pee on an empty chair, but he looks cute doing it.

Mitch comes walking down the aisle next, Zeus’ leash tightly in his hand. They’re wearing matching vests, which is perhaps a little extra, but it works in a weird way. Being extra is kind of Mitch’s thing, Dylan thinks. It used to drive him up a wall, but he appreciates it now.

They take their position next to their officiant for the day, some dude named Mat that Mitch met during orientation. He’d dropped out for med school after their 1L year, but apparently the guy became licensed to perform weddings last year just for fun. Weird person, but the fantastic cheekbones make up for it.

Zeus whines when the music changes, a beautiful performance of Canon in D, as Marty and Jax walk down the aisle. His tail is wagging at lightning speed as Jax approaches and gets even faster when they touch noses.

“Hey, no kissing before the vows,” Mat orders.

The ceremony goes very quickly, probably because it’s a dog wedding and they can’t speak, but it’s very cute all the same. Dylan takes at least 25 pictures of Mitch crying for blackmail. He can’t wait for when Mitch graduates as valedictorian in a few weeks and he gets to show photos of him crying over his gay dog.

The ceremony ends with an environmentally-friendly balloon release and the dogs being let off their leashes to jump into Patty’s pond. Everyone gets at least a little wet from the splash generated.

Because they’re all like, young and super cool and such, they all follow suit (though Dylan notices Mitch carefully handing his most expensive clothing items off to Auston before he splashes in).

Really soon, they’re going to be graduated law students. They’ll be off to their long-term job offers, some scattered to new cities, and suffering through BAR exam studying from afar. They’re not going to get a bunch of memories like this once their souls are being sucked away by billing hours, so he tries his best to soak in these final memories.

As much as Dylan wants to YOLO this moment and jump in, Connor and Dylan have dinner with his parents after this. They instead sit by the edge of the water and watch one of Mitch’s college friends drown Tkachuk every time he says something stupid, fingers linked tightly together as they observe.

They haven’t told anyone yet that they’re re-engaged. It happened a few months back, Connor bringing him to the Leafs/Bruins game and proposing as they watched Nick Robertson, apparently one of Mitch’s buddies from Marty’s rink, score his first NHL goal.

Mitch was somewhere in TD Garden with the rest of their friends, screaming his head off about Nick’s accomplishments, while Connor slipped a ring on his finger.

Their section was full of old white men who paid a gay proposal no mind, but the girls in front of them bought them beers “even though you’re Leafs fans, so don’t tell anyone we did this.”

It was all just sweet and genuine and actually full of meaning. The first proposal was cold and awkward, full of stilted and cliché platitudes because there was still so much left unsaid and a whole wall of Connor’s assholery that needed broken down.

The nerdy Connor Dylan loved in high school is back now, but more confident and self-assured. He doesn’t lash out at his peers to hide his insecurities like college Connor, but he’s retained the best parts of his evolution.

Dylan twirls the ring around his finger, smiling back at Connor when he looks down at where Dylan leans against his chest and kisses the top of his head.

“Still like it?” He asks. It’s a different ring than the tainted first proposal. Both of them wanted to forget who they were before therapy and making actual friends.

“I think I’m going to put it on for real,” Dylan says, staring down at the simple silver band. They were trying to keep it quiet to not overshadow Marty and Syd’s wedding, then Mitch and Auston’s elopement in Cabo, and then Jax and Zeus’ nuptials. Now is the perfect time. Finals are almost out of the way, and they can have the huge engagement party of Connor’s parent’s dreams (Connor still aims to please at least a little bit).

“Guys!” Mitch screams, splashing out of the water. His hair is drenched and covering his eyes, and Auston has to steady him so he doesn’t trip over his own feet. “Syd is pregnant!”

Okay, so maybe after graduation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The true epilogue for this fic is that Mitch and Auston move in next door to Marty and Syd. Jax and Zeus have sleepovers constantly and Mitch tries to kidnap the Martin baby more than once.  
> Connor and Dylan remain happily child-free.  
> Willy gets married in Sweden. Everyone flies over and has the time of their life in Europe. Willy cries a lot.  
> Zach ends up hitting it off with one of Mitch's law school classmates whenever he comes to visit after Patty's trial. They do NOT get engaged after two months like Willy did, but they're very happy together.  
> Mat fixes global warming or something. I know he got all of 2 mentions in this fic, but his bone structure is powerful enough to cure all problem in this world.

**Author's Note:**

> Sexual Harassment TW: A professor tries to take advantage of Mitch and implies he needs to sleep with him to succeed while touching his body. Mitch is visibly uncomfortable, runs out of the room deeply upset, and has the experience diminished by a person who misinterpreted the situation and later apologizes. It takes place in chapter two and begins with Mitch being called into an office.


End file.
